


Make Me Whole

by Star and Shield (Griselda_Banks)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bromance, Gen, White Tree, but also lots of fluff, just lots and lots of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-11-23 07:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 80,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11397987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Banks/pseuds/Star%20and%20Shield
Summary: Steve decides to save the Winter Soldier...BEFORE he knows who he is.





	1. The Winter Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Say hello to my baby :3 I've been working on this story practically non-stop for a little over a year now, so I'm really excited to finally send it out into the world! (I gabble on for quite a bit in this author's note; feel free to skip ahead to the chapter if you want.)
> 
> This whole thing began so innocuously, I have to laugh at how quickly and completely it's taken over my life. It was Civil War that finally tipped me over the edge and made me a complete Cap fangirl. A few weeks into this new stage of my life, my dear friend NewMoonFlicker (who eagerly fanned those first fandom embers into a flame) passed along a Tumblr post by wintergaydar talking about how they wished someone would write a canon-divergent AU with this premise. Almost immediately, I could feel this itchy sense in the back of my mind that I knew was the plot bunnies nibbling away. Even in the middle of all the other projects I had going on at the time, the more I thought about this one, the more I wanted to write it. Naively, I started off thinking that this would be a shortish chapterfic, with not too much time passing before everything got resolved. But the more I thought it all through, the more problems cropped up that needed resolving, the more time needed to pass for it all to be believable, and before I realized what was happening, this was turning into an 80,000-word novel. Even right up to the end, I kept on coming up with new complications I hadn't thought of before that would need to be worked out for this story to be complete.
> 
> I have to give at least half of the credit for this story to NewMoonFlicker. This is almost as much her baby as it is mine (though...let's stop the analogy there before it gets awkward XD). She pointed me to the original inspiration, and she has been my foremost cheerleader, brainstormer, editor, and encourager from day one till now. This story would be nothing without her ideas, I would be endlessly stuck in Chapter 2 without her fresh perspective, and I might have given up altogether if not for her staunch support and an excitement about the project second only to mine.
> 
> Make Me Whole is canon-divergent from midway through TWS, as you will soon see. I realize now that TWS is probably intended to occur the same time the movie came out, April 2014. Unfortunately, before I realized that, I decided the movie took place in the fall, and by the time I realized my mistake, the plot of Make Me Whole was inextricably bound up in this timeframe. I think this is a plausible conclusion from the evidence we can see in the movie (things people wear, leaves still being green, etc.), but if you're adamant about TWS happening in April, I'll have to ask that you suspend your disbelief for this AU.
> 
> Another note I feel I should make, just to make it clear from the outset, is that there will be no pairings in this fic. This is about bromance and friendship, nothing more and nothing less. I particularly want to mention that in this version, Black Widow and the Winter Soldier don't know each other. I know some versions of the canon give them a lot of history, but since I think it would be distracting and (at the time I'm writing this) we don't have any of that confirmed in the MCU, just assume they've had no contact before other than the time he shot her.
> 
> Also be forewarned that this story contains discussion and descriptions of abuse/torture (psychological as well as physical), drugs, self-harm, panic attacks, non-sexualized nudity, and truckloads of angst and pain. If you're sensitive about any of those things, this is probably not the story for you. (I probably make it sound worse than it actually is—right next to the truck of angsty awfulness is a truck of fluff and giggles, so all your bases are covered :P)
> 
> All right, now let's get started!

 

 _I'm here again_  
_A thousand miles away from you_  
_A broken mess_  
_Just scattered pieces of who I am_

 _..._  
  
_Then I see your face_  
_I know I'm finally yours_  
_I find everything I thought I lost before_  
_You call my name_  
_I come to you in pieces_  
_So you can make me whole_

_\- “Pieces” by Red_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 The first time Steve saw the Winter Soldier, he saw a dangerous enemy. He was confused, shocked, and angry. This man had just shot Nick Fury three times in the chest—in _his_ apartment. The Winter Soldier led him on a desperate chase through several buildings and over the rooftops, pushing him to his limits.

And he had caught the shield. This man had caught the shield that normally cut his enemies down. He'd simply snagged it out of the air with his metal hand, and thrown it back to him with such force that Steve skidded backwards several feet.

As he stood on the edge of the roof, palms still stinging, searching vainly for some trace of where the Winter Soldier had run off to, Steve knew their paths would cross again, and that the resulting battle would be difficult. This might be the most formidable single enemy he had ever fought.

But he had no idea just how much the Winter Soldier would change his life.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“This can't be the data point,” Natasha said. “This technology is ancient.”

Steve had to agree. He couldn't always tell what technology was new or cutting-edge (since it was  _all_ new to him), but dust lay inches thick on every component of this hidden computer lab. Everywhere, that is, except for a small row of slots that looked like they would fit the kind of flash drive Fury had given them. It had obviously been placed there recently, disturbing the dust on the desktop. After considering for a moment, Natasha plugged the flash drive in. Words immediately began scrolling across the screen in the middle of the desk:  _Initiate system?_

“Y-E-S spells 'yes,'” Natasha muttered as she typed in the word. As the computer whirred to life, she smirked. “'Shall we play a game?' It's from a movie that was real pop—“

“I know, I saw it,” Steve interrupted. He was more interested in the rows upon rows of computer equipment that had just come to life, whirring and spinning and blinking like a sprawling monster roused from an enchanted slumber.

Some kind of camera mounted on top of the computer screen slowly turned towards them. Something vaguely resembling a face appeared on the green computer screen—two enormous, bug-like eyes and a sound wave for a mouth. “Rogers, Steven,” a voice with a pronounced German accent said over the loudspeaker, echoing all throughout the room. “Born 1918. Romanoff, Natalya Alianovna. Born 1984.”

Natasha frowned. “It's some kind of recording.”

“I am not a recording, Fraulein,” the voice said immediately. “I may not be the man I was when the captain took me prisoner in 1945, but I  _am._ ”

Dread pooled in the pit of Steve's stomach. He knew that voice with its German accent. He knew the face that appeared on a smaller screen to the side, much easier to distinguish than the outline on the main screen.

“You know this thing?” Natasha asked him in a low voice.

Steve began to pace around behind the computer, too restless to stay in one place. “Arnim Zola was a German scientist who worked for the Red Skull. He's been dead for years.”

“First correction, I am Swiss.” The voice sounded quite pleased with itself. “Second, look around you. I have never been more alive. In 1972, I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body. My mind, however—that was worth saving, on two hundred thousand feet of databanks. You are standing in my brain.”

Steve's pacing took him behind the machine, where he could see the databanks that held Zola's brain stretching into the darkness. “How did you get here?” he demanded, returning to the front of the computer. He could see the camera following his movements.

“Invited.”

“Operation Paperclip,” Natasha supplied. “After World War II, S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited German scientists with strategic value.”

“They thought I could help their cause,” Zola said. “I also helped my own.”

A bitter taste filled Steve's mouth as he thought of Zola smugly strutting around this place, secure in the knowledge that he had infiltrated his greatest enemy. “Hydra died with the Red Skull,” Steve said, his hands curling into fists.

“Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”

Steve glared at the face on the screen, which had split into two. “Prove it.”

“Accessing archive.” Zola brought up a series of news clips to illustrate as he spoke—many of the same news clips Steve had looked up to learn what had happened since the war.

“Hydra was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. What we did not realize was that if you try to take that freedom, they resist. The war taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. After the war, S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded and I was recruited.” He showed them a picture of the first S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists, with little Dr. Zola smiling serenely in the background. “The new Hydra grew, a beautiful parasite inside S.H.I.E.L.D. For seventy years, Hydra has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war. And when history did not cooperate...history was changed.”

“That's impossible.” Steve could hear the fear behind the confidence in Natasha's words. “S.H.I.E.L.D. would have stopped you.”

“Accidents will happen.” He showed a picture of Howard Stark, his eyes blacked out. Then a picture of Fury, followed by dozens more agents throughout the years that Steve didn't know, all of them eliminated in suspicious 'accidents.' “Hydra created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrifice its freedom to gain its security. Once the purification process is complete, Hydra's new world order—“

“Wait.” Among all of the pictures gloatingly showing them how Hydra had gotten rid of all obstacles, Steve had seen a blurry photograph of a sniper seen from a distance. A sniper with a metal arm that had a red star on the shoulder. “That man—who is he?”

“Ahh, that is my greatest creation,” Zola said, a smug smile evident even over the old, crackly speakers. “And it is very fitting that you should be so curious about the Winter Soldier, Captain. You see, you were his inspiration.”

His insides went cold. “What do you mean?”

“Once I discovered that Dr. Erskine's serum was a success, I set out to recreate the serum. Alas, it was not a perfect copy, but I could make no more progress after the Winter Soldier. Every subject after him rejected the serum and perished mere hours after injection. So we had to preserve our Asset. We perfected cryogenic stasis, and now we only bring the Winter Soldier out when it is necessary. Unfortunately, though the serum has given the Winter Soldier strength, speed, and stamina equal to yours, what he lacks is your conviction. You and Johann Schmidt believed in your cause, and that gave you potency. Focus. Resolve. We have had to go to much trouble to give the same to our Asset.”

Steve's mouth was dry. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to his question, but he asked it anyway. “How?”

“Oh...brainwashing. Drugs. Physical...incentives. We have found that a combination of techniques brings about the best results.” As he spoke, pictures flashed across the screen—chemical formulas and diagrams of what looked like a modified electric chair. Instead of being used as a method of execution, this monstrosity allowed Hydra to coerce the Winter Soldier to do their bidding.

Natasha glanced at him, then took over the interrogation, demanding to know what was on the drive. Though he listened to what they were saying, Steve's mind seemed to be stuck on that blurry image of the Winter Soldier. He couldn't even imagine what horrors that man had endured, forced to do Hydra's bidding. It didn't matter whether he'd volunteered in the beginning, or if he wanted out now. Hydra never let a useful tool out of their clutches, and that was all he was to them now.

And it was all Steve's fault.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve felt much better after he, Sam, and Natasha had hashed out a plan of attack while sitting around Sam's kitchen table. Ever since he'd gotten on that elevator the day before, he'd been running, thinking on his feet, improvising a plan while he was still trying to process everything that had happened. Even though he knew everything could change in an instant on the battlefield, he'd always felt better with a plan firmly in mind ahead of time.

“There's one more thing,” he said as Sam grabbed his keys, preparing to head out. “The Winter Soldier.”

Natasha gave him a guarded look, as though she knew what he was thinking. Which she probably did.

“The guy who killed Fury?” Sam asked, glancing between them. “You think he's gonna come after us next?”

“He's _definitely_ gonna come after us,” Natasha said, still watching Steve. “At least he will once S.H.I.E.L.D. gets wind of what we're doing.”

“I want to help him.” Sam and Natasha both stared at him, so Steve looked at his hands folded on top of the table. “They torture him. They drug him and coerce him and _force_ him to carry out their missions.” He closed his eyes, and he could see the Winter Soldier silhouetted against his eyelids, as if the sight of him had been branded there during their brief encounter. “He doesn't have a choice. So I want to give him one.” Slowly, he opened his eyes again, looking up beseechingly at his companions. “I just...I have to save him. I _have_ to.”

“Look,” Sam said gently. “Whoever he used to be...and the guy he is now...I don't think he's the kind you save. He's the kind you stop.”

Steve shook his head. “I have to try. I have to give him a second chance.”

Natasha and Sam shared a look, then Natasha stepped around the table to put a hand on Steve's shoulder. “Why are you taking this so personally?” she asked gently. “None of that's your fault, Steve. Hydra's responsible for everything done to him.”

“It doesn't matter whether it's my fault or not,” Steve said, though he knew it was. He leaned back in his chair, staring out the window at the tree in Sam's front yard without really seeing it. “They were trying to create another supersoldier like me. That makes it _my_ responsibility to help him. I may be the only one who can.”

Biting her lip, Natasha said, “If he's been brainwashed...he probably won't even be willing to listen to you. You might not be able to get through to him; there'd be too much Hydra in the way.”

Steve frowned thoughtfully. “What did you do, back when Loki was controlling Clint? You were able to get him back to normal.”

With a grimace, Natasha reluctantly said, “Cognitive recalibration. Basically, I hit him as hard as I could in the head to knock him free of Loki's control.”

“Then that's what we'll do with the Winter Soldier.”

“There's no guarantee that this will work, Steve,” Natasha said, looking worried. “This guy's had people playing with his mind a _lot_ longer than Clint did. Even if you _can_ get through to him...there might not be enough of him left to even respond.”

That thought just made Steve feel sicker and guiltier than ever. “He's still a human being, and every human being deserves a chance to make the right choice.”

Sam sighed. “After that, there's no way I could refuse to help you. But seriously, do you know how hard that's gonna be? It would probably take everything we've got just to keep him from killing us anyway, but now we're supposed to whack him on the head hard enough to undo seventy years of brainwashing.  _And_ we have to do all that without killing him.”

“That's Steve Rogers for you,” Natasha said, punching him in the shoulder with an exasperated smile. “Always asking for the impossible.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve hadn't expected to run into the Winter Soldier again quite so quickly. But apparently he had been tailing them much more closely than they'd expected, because he attacked them soon after they'd kidnapped Sitwell and gotten the information they needed from him about Zola's algorithm. And Steve was beginning to realize what Sam had warned them about: Just trying to avoid being killed was hard enough, let alone the rest of their intentions for the Winter Soldier.

Cognitive recalibration was one thing when it was a one-on-one fistfight in the deserted hallways of a helicarrier. But out in the open, with civilians milling about and Hydra agents firing on all sides.... Natasha, as the most agile of the three (and the only one who actually had  _experience_ with cognitive recalibration), went after the Winter Soldier while Steve and Sam took care of the rest.

But then Natasha was shot. Steve saw it from a distance, and started to run towards her, but he knew he was too far away. Just as the Winter Soldier raised his gun to fire again, Sam swooped in on his Falcon wings, knocking the Winter Soldier flat on his back. He started to flip back onto his feet, but Sam kicked him sharply in the head, and he staggered back down.

Now was his chance. “Natasha!” Steve cried, and Sam nodded, rushing off to help her. Steve turned back to the Winter Soldier just in time to catch his metal fist on the shield.

“Wait!” he yelled, backing up as he ducked, dodged, and blocked the Winter Soldier's attacks. “I don't want to fight you!”

It was much more difficult than he'd thought it would be, trying to fight and talk to him at the same time. The Winter Soldier was incredibly strong and skilled, even though blood trickled into his eyes from where Sam had kicked him in the forehead. Steve had no way of knowing whether they'd cut through the brainwashing or not—the Winter Soldier didn't  _look_ very disoriented or confused, but maybe he was so used to fighting Hydra's battles that he kept going on instinct.

“Please!” The Winter Soldier shoved him against the side of a van, his knife cutting into the metal with a shriek. “Let me help you!”

He ducked under the Winter Soldier's arm and panted as he whirled away, “Don't go back to them. Don't let them hurt you anymore.”

Slowly, the Winter Soldier turned to face him. The mask covered his nose and mouth, so all Steve could see of the man's face were his blazing eyes and his bloody forehead, furrowed with shock and confusion. “What?”

He didn't lower his knife, but he also wasn't attacking. Steve didn't relax his guard or lower his shield, but he held out his free hand, open and unthreatening. “They hurt you, don't they? To make you do what they want. But you deserve better than that.” He swallowed, then staked everything on one final plea. “Come with me. I can hide you—take you far away, somewhere Hydra can never find you. You'll never have to let anyone lay a finger on you again.”

For a moment, he thought he'd actually managed to get through to the Winter Soldier. The man looked unsure, his eyes darting between Steve's face and his outstretched hand, as though trying to detect a hint of deception. But then his eyes hardened into steel, and he raised a gun, preparing to shoot.

Steve ducked behind his shield just as something exploded into the van behind the Winter Soldier. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Sam at Natasha's side, holding a rocket launcher. When he turned around again, the Winter Soldier was gone.

“Drop the shield! Get on your knees!”

A quick glance around told Steve that they were completely surrounded. Black-clad members of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team that had tried to kill him before encircled them, advancing with weapons drawn. Steve knew that, as double agents working for Hydra, they would have no compunction about killing them where they stood. But if they hadn't simply opened fire, that meant they were probably going to let them live for at least a little while. So Steve dropped his shield on the ground and lowered himself to his knees, signaling to the others to stand down.

Sam, who knelt by Natasha's side, slowly put down the rocket launcher and raised his hands over his head. Natasha sat slumped against the side of an overturned car, clutching her bleeding shoulder and looking like she was about to pass out.

As the S.T.R.I.K.E. team surrounded them, handcuffing them and hauling them toward a black van, Steve found himself more preoccupied with the Winter Soldier than their present predicament. Would he just trot back to his Hydra masters as usual, and let them punish and torture him all over again? Or would he realize that he could have something better? Steve hoped that, even if the Winter Soldier never took him up on the offer to hide him from Hydra, he would at least decide to leave.

He just couldn't get the look on the Winter Soldier's face out of his mind when he'd mentioned that they hurt him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

  

It was a while before they saw the Winter Soldier again, but he never really left Steve's mind. There were plenty of other important things to think about, such as how they were going to destroy the helicarriers and thwart Project Insight. He also realized he needed to get his hands on one of his suits, so all the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who hadn't gone over to Hydra would immediately know who he was and where they needed to direct their loyalty. Rather than risk going back to his apartment, which was probably still under surveillance, he decided to break into the Smithsonian and steal the old suit from his own exhibit. There were a lot of details to attend to in a short amount of time.

But always in a back corner of his mind, he kept coming back to the Winter Soldier. Where was he now? Was he in pain? Was he being punished for not completing his mission? Was he wishing he'd taken Steve up on his offer, or did he only hate Steve more than ever for causing him more hardship?

So it really didn't come as a surprise when the Winter Soldier showed up on the deck of the first helicarrier they landed on. The ordinary soldiers they encountered were no problem; they stood no chance against Steve's shield and Sam's increased mobility. But just as they emerged onto the deck after replacing the chip, a black blur sailed over a stack of crates and threw Steve onto the ground.

Steve could immediately tell that they had brainwashed the Winter Soldier again. His eyes were cold steel traps, imprisoning his emotions behind them as completely as his mask hid his identity. There was none of the confusion and hesitation that had let Steve dare to hope he could convince this man to walk away.

So Steve renewed his efforts to break Hydra's hold. The shield had fallen from his hands when the Winter Soldier had first attacked, so Steve tried everything he could to hit the Winter Soldier's head with his fists and elbows. The Winter Soldier seemed to know what he was trying to do, and blocked every attack. Steve was hard-pressed to avoid the Winter Soldier's knife, which he kept switching from one hand to the other, trying to throw Steve off.

“Cap!”

Steve barely even had to glance over to know that Sam had thrown him his shield. Snatching it out of the air, he smashed it into the Winter Soldier's right wrist, making him drop the knife with a grunt of pain. Without even losing a beat, his metal hand shot forward and latched onto Steve's throat.

“Steve!” Sam raced towards them, but just then a jet swooped overhead, firing at them. Sam shot into the air, drawing the gunfire away from Steve. Unfortunately, it also meant he couldn't break the Winter Soldier's hold.

Steve couldn't pry those steel fingers away from his throat. They squeezed harder every second, determined to choke the life out of him. Cold blue eyes stared at him dispassionately, not even displaying anger or triumph. He couldn't stand it. He refused to let those eyes be the last thing he saw.

He couldn't get a good enough angle with the shield in his hand, so he threw it at the nearby stack of crates. It bounced off, slamming into the back of the Winter Soldier's head. As he staggered, his grip slackening, Steve headbutted him hard enough to throw him to the ground.

Even as he desperately gasped for breath, Steve started to talk. “Please...c-come with me....” He had to stop to cough, his throat burning as though those fingers had been made of fire. The Winter Soldier struggled to rise, but fell back down. Hopefully all of this hadn't caused permanent damage.

“You can...walk away right now,” Steve choked out, bending over and resting his hands on his knees. But he didn't go for his shield. “Stop letting them...tell you who you are. Make your own choice! They call you...their Asset...but I know...you're more than that.”

“Th' hell d'you think you know 'bout me?” the Winter Soldier slurred, struggling to his feet and grabbing onto the crates for balance.

“I know that you're a human being!” he cried, the bitter taste returning to his mouth as he thought of everything this battered man had endured. “And that is _not_ how you treat a human being. It's not even how you treat a _dog!_ You don't have to put up with that. You deserve so much better! And I'll hunt down every last one of the _scum_ who did this to you.”

The Winter Soldier straightened, blinking rapidly as if trying to focus his vision. He looked at Steve with surprise and confusion, as if he couldn't understand why Steve was trying so hard. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Then the Winter Soldier took a tentative step away from the crates supporting him.

The jet Sam had been fighting crashed to the deck, the force of the impact making the ground beneath their feet pitch and roll like a ship on the sea. They both stumbled. Steve caught his balance quickly, but the Winter Soldier, already unsteady, staggered several feet and slipped off the edge of the deck.

Steve realized what was going to happen moments before it did, and he raced for the edge, throwing out his hand and grabbing desperately at the Winter Soldier. But he got there a split second too late. Metal fingertips brushed his, and the Winter Soldier plummeted thousands of feet to his death. His eyes, thrown wide with fear, seemed to stab right through Steve and drag him down with them.

“No!” Steve screamed, still reaching even though the Winter Soldier had already disappeared into the distance.

It was just like when Bucky had fallen from the train, reaching for him, screaming as he fell out of sight. No matter how far he reached, how fast he moved, he had failed to save Bucky. And now, he had failed another man he had sworn to save.

Then, wings shining white like an angel, Sam soared up towards him, towing the Winter Soldier by his metal arm. The thrusters on Sam's back blasted as hard as they could, and even from a distance Steve could see the strain on Sam's face as he lifted his quarry and deposited him safely on the deck. Sam landed next to Steve, his wings whining as they folded up.

“Dude, that guy's heavier than _you!_ ” Sam panted. “I almost dislocated my shoulder doing that!” He groaned, rolling his shoulder. “Must be the metal arm that makes him so heavy.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, putting a hand on his unhurt shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. You owe me _big_ time for this one.”

Steve bent down and picked up his shield, which had gotten wedged among the clutter of fallen crates when the jet had crashed. He looked over at the Winter Soldier, who crouched several feet away on hands and knees, visibly trembling.

Steve took a step towards him, but Sam put a hand on his arm. “Cap, we're running out of time. We've still got two of these things left.”

Reluctantly, Steve turned away. “You're right.” Before Sam lifted him into the air, he glanced over his shoulder one last time. The Winter Soldier was staring at him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

  

When Steve finally made it to the third helicarrier, he was alone. The Falcon suit had finally given out; Sam had managed to land safely, but he couldn't watch Steve's back anymore. Soon, this would all be over. Hydra would be crushed, S.H.I.E.L.D. would be gone, and millions of people would live to see the end of this day. All he had to do was place the final targeting chip and get off this thing somehow.

There was only one thing standing in his way: The Winter Soldier. Steve stood at one end of a long, narrow catwalk, and the Winter Soldier stood at the other end. He stood directly in front of the console Steve needed to use.

Steve sighed, but no matter how much he wanted to save this man, he still had to do the right thing. Even if it meant killing him. “People are gonna die,” he said. “I can't let that happen.”

“I don't care about them,” the Winter Soldier said. “But if I step aside...can you make sure Hydra never finds me?”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. But when they did, Steve took a hopeful step forward. “You mean...you're going to walk away?”

“They...hurt me,” he said in a tight voice, as though he was struggling to speak through a throat closing around a torrent of emotion. “I don't...want to...anymore.” There was something almost childlike in his words—which only made it more horrifying when Steve considered what he was saying.

“I tried to, once,” he continued haltingly. “After my mission, I just...didn't go back. It took...two weeks...for them to find me. But...it was...worse.” He shook his head in a sharp twitch, as though trying to dislodge a fly. Steve noticed his right hand was tight around the knife at his belt. His shoulders heaved; he was practically gasping.

“This time will be different,” Steve said, taking another cautious step forward. The Winter Soldier jerked backward, his back pressing against the console. Steve kept his hands loose and open at his sides. “This time, I'll be there to protect you, and hide you. Besides,” he added, daring a small smile, “this is Hydra we're talking about. The last place they'll look for one of their own would be at Captain America's side, right?”

“So I'll...stay with you?”

He wasn't sure what emotion lay behind that question, but he nodded. “I think that would be the safest thing to do. At least until you feel ready to strike out on your own. If you disappear for long enough, they'll probably stop looking for you.”

The Winter Soldier didn't relax. He still clutched his knife, still watched Steve with wary, calculating eyes. But slowly, he took two steps to the side and left the way clear for Steve.

Steve couldn't stop the delighted grin that crossed his face. It had actually worked. He had saved the Winter Soldier.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_...whoever comes to me I will never cast out._

_\- John 6:37_

 


	2. The First Day of Winter

_I know that it's gonna take some time_  
_I've got to admit that the thought has crossed my mind_  
_This might end up like it should_  
_And I'm gonna say what I need to say_  
_And hope to God that it don't scare you away_  
_Don't wanna be misunderstood_  
_But I'm starting to believe that_  
_This could be the start of something good_

_\- “Start of Something Good” by Daughtry_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

  

He had said goodbye to Sam and politely refused Fury's offer to go incognito to Europe to hunt down the remnants of Hydra there. Eventually, he would like to do what he could to eradicate Hydra, but for now he had a more important mission. He'd packed his bags, made a brief comment to the press that he was taking a well-earned vacation, and locked up his apartment. There was only one thing left to do.

Natasha met Steve at a park he sometimes visited when he wanted to draw. “You know, you didn't actually have to tell the press you were going on vacation,” she said as they strolled along the path.

“I didn't want them harassing me every time I set foot outside.”

“If you think that's going to keep them from hounding you, you're more naive than I thought.” With a smirk, she handed him the folder she'd been carrying. “So it's a good thing you picked me as your travel guide.”

Steve flipped through the papers in the folder. There were pictures and directions to various safe houses Natasha knew of—places where someone could lie low, out of danger and away from the public eye. Some were summer homes, with dates noted of when the owners usually used them. Others had been abandoned, or bought under a false name that couldn't be traced back to Natasha or anyone else.

“I'm noticing a theme,” Steve said, flipping between photo after photo of quaint log cabins in a mountainous landscape. “What is this, Romanoff's Rustic Roadtrip?”

Natasha chuckled. “All of these are a fair distance from civilization, and the nearest towns are pretty small, so you should get your privacy. I gave you some options in case you blow your cover.”

As he closed the folder, it occurred to Steve just how much trouble she'd gone to in order to prepare this for him on such short notice. He'd asked the favor of her as a friend, knowing how much better she was at running and hiding than he was. But now he remembered her saying that she owed him for saving her life. She put a lot of store by what she owed others, and making sure they were even. She probably didn't like the knowledge that someone had something they could hold over her. The habits of an assassin ran deep, and she was too used to manipulation and deception to accept unconditional friendship with open arms. Maybe after he was finished with the Winter Soldier, he'd have another little project to turn his attention to.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, coming to a stop and facing her. “I really appreciate this.”

Natasha gave him a long look, the kind that made it seem she was reading his mind like a book. Finally she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Just be careful, Steve. I don't want to come out of hiding just to go to your funeral.”

He couldn't quite meet her eyes. Had she figured out his real plan? “I'm just going on vacation.”

With a roll of her eyes, Natasha turned to leave. “You're still a terrible liar.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 When Steve turned his motorcycle into the gas station, his heart sank. There was a man scrubbing his car's windshield while filling up, and a van full of rambunctious children demanding snacks from their mother, but otherwise the place was deserted. It had been too much to hope for that the Winter Soldier would wait for him all this time. He probably thought Steve had gone to round up all the Avengers and bring them here.

Watching the numbers tick past as he refueled the motorcycle, Steve heaved a sigh. He was pretty sure the Winter Soldier would keep as far away from Hydra as he could. But with no reason (from his perspective) to trust Steve...of course he would run. And by now, he could be anywhere. Steve would have no hope of finding him again. He would probably never even hear if Hydra captured him.

He turned around after hanging up the nozzle, and started in surprise. The Winter Soldier stood on the other side of the motorcycle, watching him as if he'd been there the whole time. He wore the hooded sweatshirt Steve had given him, and carried the helmet Steve never bothered to wear. With it in his hand and his hood pulled up, the mask didn't stand out so much.

Steve grinned in relief. “You startled me!”

The Winter Soldier just looked at him. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

After an awkward moment of silence, Steve said, “Come on. The car's not far.” He swung a leg over the motorcycle and looked up expectantly.

The Winter Soldier hesitated, but then he pulled on the helmet and sat down behind Steve. He was careful not to touch Steve at all, gripping the seat and leaning back somewhat precariously so not even a bump in the road would jostle them together. But Steve made no comment and simply drove off.

It was an awkward ride, not only because of how tense the Winter Soldier was. Steve felt like he ought to say something, even though his companion probably wouldn't reply. This was the beginning of what would no doubt be a lengthy journey, in which they would spend day and night with no one besides each other. What did you say at the start of something like that?  _Well, looks like it's just you and me. Hope you don't snore._

Thankfully, the ride was short. He'd parked the car (which he'd actually bought this time—there were limits to how much he was willing to 'borrow') in a deserted parking lot in front of an empty strip mall. There was no one around, and the only cars that passed were on the highway. It was unlikely anyone would see them switching vehicles.

He'd decided on an SUV with enough space in the back to squeeze his motorcycle in after folding down the third row of seats. He hadn't packed much luggage—just some clothes, a bit of food to get them started, and his shield. They shouldn't need anything else.

Steve had thought of everything—or so he believed until he pulled up alongside the car and Sam strolled around from the other side, hands in pockets. “Are we there yet? Wherever 'there' is?”

Immediately, the Winter Soldier leapt off the motorcycle and retreated several paces, a pistol pointed at each of them. He glared at Steve. “You said we would be alone.”

The accusation in the Winter Soldier's voice burned in his ears. Steve raised his hands placatingly, still sitting on the motorcycle. “Relax. This is my friend Sam. It's okay, we can trust him.”

The other man still glared between the two of them, clearly not convinced.

“Look, I didn't know he was going to follow us.”

Sam snorted. “Dude, please. You go to all that trouble to convince us not to kill this guy, and then he disappears and you're suddenly fine with that? It was obvious what you were gonna do.”

Steve grimaced. Apparently, he hadn't been keeping this a secret from anyone.

“Seriously, though,” Sam said, turning to the Winter Soldier, “you've got nothing to worry about with me. I follow Cap. So if he says hide you from the bad guys, I'll do everything I can to hide you from the bad guys.”

Gratitude filled Steve's heart as he looked at Sam. They'd only known each other for a few days, and here he was, ready to set aside his whole life for him. Sam Wilson was one of the most incredible men he'd ever met. “You don't have to come with us,” he said quietly.

Sam shrugged. “I know,” he said, and left it at that.

Slowly, the Winter Soldier lowered his weapons, watching both of them carefully. Trying not to make any sudden movements, Steve finally got off the motorcycle and put it in the back of the car. Sam tossed in a bag of his own and carefully set the Falcon wings on top of it. Steve hoped none of them would have to use their weapons, but he knew that was probably too much to ask, considering whom they were trying to hide.

In a few minutes, they were settled in the car and heading down the highway, as if they weren't three of the most unusual people in the country, doing something no one else would think was a good idea. The Winter Soldier sat in the back, one hand on his seatbelt so he could take it off at a moment's notice. When Steve glanced in the rearview mirror as he drove, the Winter Soldier was always either staring at him or at Sam. Watching their movements, listening to their discussion, trying to figure them out.

Conversation flowed easily with Sam. The ironic aspect of their friendship was that they knew each other well enough that they would die for each other, yet they knew less about each other's lives than most casual acquaintances. Steve was glad to get the chance to fix that.

Of course, their backseat passenger said nothing, but they didn't push him. His discomfort was obvious, and he'd already taken a huge step just agreeing to sit in the car with them.

But Sam turned around to look at him during a lull in the conversation, apparently determined to include him. The Winter Soldier started a little at the sudden attention, and watched Sam warily.

“So what's your name?” Sam asked casually. “If you remember it, I mean.”

Steve watched the Winter Soldier in the rearview mirror. He supposed it didn't matter one way or another, but he was curious—how much did the Winter Soldier remember? Did he have to start over again every time Hydra wiped his mind? Or did some things stick?

For almost a minute, he sat looking between them, as if weighing his options against their possible reactions. They waited patiently, until finally he said, “I don't know.”

Sam continued as though there had been no awkward pause. “Well, what are we gonna call you, then? 'Winter Soldier' is kind of a mouthful. What about just 'Soldier'?”

His eyes burned darkly over the mask. “ _No._ ”

“Well, I'm not just going to say 'Hey you' all the time.” Sam thought for a moment. “'Winter'?”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Isn't that a girl's name?”

An evil grin split Sam's face as he faced forward again. “Winter it is, then!”

The man in the back seat looked between the two of them, a bemused furrow between his eyes, but he didn't protest. And the name stuck. By the time they reached their destination, both of them were calling him Winter.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve pulled up outside a roomy log cabin tucked away in a quiet corner of the forest. A stream trickled along behind the cabin, and huge leafy trees blocked the cabin from view of the long, winding driveway that led to the main road. It was the perfect hermitage for them to lie low for a while. Some of the trees were starting to change color, but even when all the leaves fell, the trees were thick enough that no one would even know they were there. Steve had picked this cabin in West Virginia because it was the closest to D.C., and because it was the first one Natasha had listed in the file. From what he could tell, this one looked like the most secure location. The perfect site for the rehabilitation of the Winter Soldier.

Sam gave a low whistle as he stepped out of the car. “I had no idea Natasha could afford a place like this.”

Steve sighed, pulling the bags out of the back. “She probably can't. It's best not to ask too many questions.”

After depositing the luggage in the living room, Steve made a quick tour of the cabin. The ground floor was a single open room, with the kitchen area at one end and a large fireplace at the other. There was no kitchen table, just a long island surrounded by bar stools. A large deck overlooked the stream out back. There were four bedrooms upstairs, with a bathroom in the hall besides the one in the master bedroom.

Steve smiled at the calming view of forested mountains through the window in the upstairs hallway. Even if his real reason for coming here  _wasn't_ just vacation, the peace of this place would do him good. He turned to find Winter standing awkwardly at the top of the stairs, watching him.

“Which one do you want?” Steve asked, waving his hand at the bedroom doors.

Winter stared at him for a long moment, then stared blankly at the open door to the nearest bedroom. He looked back, then said slowly, “What?”

“We have plenty of room to spare. Go ahead and pick whichever one you want.”

Winter just stared at him, brow furrowed. He looked around at the rooms, then looked back at Steve. He didn't seem to know what to do.

Then Steve remembered where he'd come from. Hydra had made all of Winter's choices for him. They would never have asked what his  _preference_ was about anything. It had been years since he would have been asked to pick something, and even though he'd recently made the biggest choice of his entire life, the whole process was probably very strange to him. But the ability to make choices was fundamental to freedom, so Steve determined to give Winter as many choices as he could.

“You don't have to decide now,” he said, heading for the stairs. “Have a look around and pick one for tonight. You can try them all out if you like, see which one you like best.”

Winter hastily skirted around him and backed into a corner, but Steve pretended not to notice and continued downstairs. Sam was busy putting the food away in the kitchen cabinets. Pausing at the edge of the kitchen area, he watched Sam shaking his head over the selection of cereals and complete lack of milk. “I really appreciate you doing this, Sam,” he said softly.

“Putting the food away is _literally_ the least I could do.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Sam turned around. “Don't worry about it. I knew you'd need my help, so I decided to come even if you didn't ask. This is way too big a job for you to handle on your own, so stop trying to.”

Steve smiled and dipped his head. “Yes, sir.”

“Besides....” Sam held up a bright red cereal box with a cheerful cartoon character grinning on the front. “What are you, five? Don't you know Trix are for kids?”

Steve frowned in mock indignation. “Don't deny an old man his comforts! When I was your age, we only had corn flakes. And I thought Winter might like it.”

They both chuckled at the thought of the fearsome assassin eating brightly-colored children's cereal. After a thoughtful pause, Sam asked, “How old do you think he is?”

That was something Steve had been wondering too, though he supposed it would be impossible to know for sure until Winter remembered—if he ever did. “It's hard to say, what with the cryosleep. Natasha said the Winter Soldier has been around for at least fifty years. Add to that the time it must have taken them to train him, and his apparent age...and he might actually be almost as old as I am.”

It was an odd thought. Their experiences had been so different, and yet...maybe they had actually come from the same era. Maybe, after Winter had regained some of his memories, he would actually be able to talk to someone who knew what life had been like back then.

Steve helped Sam make sandwiches for supper. It was a rather paltry meal, but they could go to the store later. Once they had a plate of sandwiches ready, Steve called, “Winter! Time for supper!”

Then he turned around and saw Winter standing behind him, as if he'd been there the whole time. He hid his surprise by holding out the plate of sandwiches. “Here. You haven't eaten all day; you must be starving.”

Though Winter's eyes latched onto the sandwiches, he took a step backward. He touched the mask he still wore, and shook his head.

“You can take the mask off now,” Steve said gently. “It's just us. There's no one else around for miles, so you don't have to worry about someone discovering your identity. You're safe here.”

“At least take it off long enough to eat,” Sam said reasonably.

But Winter backed up all the way to the wall next to the fridge, his eyes darting between Steve and Sam. He looked like a cornered rabbit. “I don't...want...” he said, his breath coming in gasps. “I'm not...ready...to...for you...to see....” He kept one hand on his mask, as if to create an extra layer of protection in front of his mouth.

It suddenly occurred to Steve that there might be another reason Winter wore a mask besides concealing his identity. He had led such a rough life. What if the mask hid some unsightly blemish, some disfiguring scar he'd received in battle? Or maybe even one Hydra had put there on purpose? It made sense that he would be self-conscious, even ashamed, and they were only making things worse by urging him to take it off. For so long, Winter had been unable even to decide what was done with his body. Hydra wouldn't have cared about something like privacy or basic human dignity. They would have scrutinized every inch of Winter's body to make sure he was in top condition and ready to carry out their orders. So if Winter didn't want them to see part of his body, they needed to respect that.

“It's okay,” he said, holding out a placating hand and taking a step forward.

That was apparently the wrong thing to do. Winter darted around him and raced for the front door, almost pulling it off its hinges as he wrenched it open and disappeared outside.

“Winter!” Steve cried in surprise, starting after him.

Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Don't chase him; you'll just make it worse.”

Steve wanted to run after Winter and make sure he wasn't going to leave them for good, right when they'd barely begun to help him. But Sam was right. Running after Winter would only make him panic worse than ever. Besides...he had asked Winter to trust him despite everything his instincts told him. Maybe it was time for Steve to do the same.

So he took the plate of sandwiches onto the front porch and sat on the steps, pretending not to watch the treeline. Winter was nowhere in sight, but Steve just kept telling himself that once the panic attack was over, Winter would realize that the safest place for him to be was still at their side.

When Winter finally returned, he was like a nervous but very hungry wild animal. Steve spotted him lurking in the shadow of the trees, so he left two sandwiches on the plate and retreated to the cobwebby rocking chair in the corner of the porch. He sat there, rocking steadily, and watched Winter slowly prowling forward. He was like a cat, slinking through the shadows around the edges of the cabin, watching Steve all the while. Finally he found his way to the foot of the stairs, switching his stare from Steve to the sandwiches.

“They're for you,” Steve said, in case it wasn't clear. Winter started at the sound of his voice, but at least he didn't retreat. “You don't have to eat them now. You can eat later, behind closed doors, if you don't want us to see your face. But you _do_ have to eat.”

Winter stood watching him for a while, processing this, then scooped up the sandwiches, wrapped them in a napkin, and stuffed the parcel into his pocket. He did all this without taking his eyes off Steve.

Steve rocked in the chair, meeting Winter's confused expression with a smile. He wished he could think of some way to put Winter at his ease, but that was a tall order when Winter was probably  _never_ at his ease except for when his mind had been wiped completely blank. So Winter just stood there, shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other, watching Steve's every movement as if waiting for him to do something threatening. But Steve just kept rocking slowly.

Winter suddenly shifted his attention to the open front door, where Sam appeared from the depths of the house. “I got the bath ready for you,” he said, nodding to Winter. “Thought you might like a good soak instead of just a shower.”

When Winter looked confused, Sam smirked. “You  _reek,_ man. You need a bath, and don't say no or I'll be offended.”

It was hard to tell if Winter understood Sam's humor or not, but he followed them inside with an air of confusion. The confusion remained as Steve handed him a pile of his own clothes to change into, Sam showed him where the soap and shampoo were, and Steve pointed out the lock on both the bathroom door and the one to the master bedroom.

Then they closed the door and left him, completely alone and completely safe, for probably the first time in over fifty years.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_Fear not, for I have redeemed you;_

_I have called you by name, you are mine._

_\- Isaiah 43:1_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, that's right, he'll be called Winter from now on! Hope that doesn't throw anybody off, because I couldn't dream of calling him anything else by now. The conversation where the three of them make that decision is basically my own thought processes in dialogue format :P
> 
> Fun fact: Originally, Sam wasn't going to be a part of this. (They also weren't going to hole up in a log cabin in the mountains—waaaaaay back at the beginning, I was imagining Steve taking Winter to the place where Fury was hiding after faking his death.) That state of affairs didn't last very long, because Sam elbowed his way into my brain and made himself at home, and he hasn't left since then. I'm really glad for that, because there's no _way_ this story would work without him!
> 
> There's something I've seen other fanfiction writers do and always wanted to try myself: a separate fic of deleted/extended scenes. Usually, if I get ideas for additional material to put in a story, I just go ahead and put it in the story, because there's no reason to leave it out. But _Make Me Whole_ is written almost entirely from Steve's POV, with occasional scenes from Sam's. This is mostly to create the desired amount of tension and cohesion in the story, but I discovered that in order to characterize Winter correctly from the others' perspectives, I still had to write out his perspective for some scenes.
> 
> So, since I'm writing a lot of the scenes from another POV anyway, and they would be superfluous in _Make Me Whole,_ I've decided to post a deleted/extended scenes fic once I'm finished. It will be called _Shards of Me._ As you read _Make Me Whole,_ let me know if you'd like to see a scene from a different POV, and I'll make sure to include it once I start posting _Shards of Me_!


	3. Withdraw

_May I hold you_  
_As you fall to sleep_  
_When the world is closing in_  
_And you can't breathe?_  
_May I love you?_  
_May I be your shield_  
_When no one can be found?_  
_May I lay you down?_

_\- “May I” by Trading Yesterday_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The bedroom Steve had chosen shared a wall with the master bathroom. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Winter since they left him to take his bath, so he assumed Winter had picked the master bedroom as his, at least for the night. It was probably the best choice for him anyway; it offered more privacy than the other rooms, and he wouldn't have to venture outside to use the bathroom.

Winter moved so quietly that the only sound Steve heard from that room before going to bed was the rushing sound of the bathwater being let out. Steve was exhausted from the stress of the past few days (had it really only been that long since Fury's attempted assassination?), so he quickly fell into a dreamless sleep.

He woke at 1:26 a.m. to the unmistakable sounds of someone throwing up. At first he was too sleepy and disoriented to realize what was going on, but then he sat up and looked at the wall through which the muffled sounds were coming. His protective instincts were yelling at him to rush to Winter's side, break down the door if necessary, and help him. But he had a feeling that would only make things worse, or even undo what little progress they'd made.

The sounds stopped. A pitiful little cough echoed through the wall, and all was silent. Steve got out of bed and padded out into the hallway. He listened at Winter's closed door, but couldn't hear anything, so he knocked and called quietly, “Winter? Are you all right?”

For a moment, he heard nothing. Then he heard the toilet flushing and water running in the sink. Once silence fell again, Steve knocked a second time. “Winter? I just want to help.”

After a long silence, which Steve spent wondering whether he should knock again or not, the lock suddenly clicked. Steve waited, but the door didn't open. He reached out for the doorknob, but stopped himself. Even though Winter had unlocked the door, Steve had to prove that he could be trusted to not just barge in. Winter had to learn that some people would actually wait for permission. He knocked again. “Can I come in?”

Another long pause. When the reply finally came, it was muffled behind door and mask, and so quiet Steve could barely hear it. “Yes.”

When Steve opened the door, he expected to see Winter standing right there, but instead he was over by the bed. The room was dark, but the light from the bathroom fell across the bedspread, which looked smooth and untouched as though Winter hadn't slept at all. He slumped against the foot of the bed, gripping the post with his metal hand while his real arm clutched his stomach. The clothes Steve had given him hung loosely on his body, making him seem thinner than he actually was and adding to his weak appearance. He still wore the mask, of course, but his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and what little skin  _was_ visible was even paler than usual.

After a moment's consideration, Steve left the door open and stepped away from it, making sure that Winter wouldn't feel trapped. “You don't look so great,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Hurts,” Winter mumbled, pressing his arm harder against his stomach. “Ate the sandwich...and then it hurt.”

Steve could see him trembling as he stood there, warily following every movement Steve made. He looked confused and frightened, like a lost child.

“I hope you weren't allergic to something in it.” He raised his hand slightly. “Can I feel your forehead? We need to see if you have a fever.”

Winter violently shook his head, and Steve stifled an impatient sigh. If he was going to make such a big deal about letting Winter have a choice, he had to accept the choices Winter made, even when they made life harder for Steve. “Okay, wait right here.”

He rummaged around in the other bathroom until he found the thermometer, then brought it back to Winter. “It's a thermometer,” he explained when Winter just stared at it. “Just stick it under your tongue until it beeps, then tell me what the number is.”

As he stepped back out into the hall to wait, he found Sam sleepily poking his head out the door of his own room. “What's up?” he yawned.

Steve briefly explained the problem. By the time he finished, Sam looked fully awake and joined him outside Winter's closed door.

“You realize how hard it's going to be to take care of him while he's sick?” Sam muttered. “If he still doesn't let us take off his mask....”

Before Steve could reply, the door opened again. This time, Winter opened it himself and wordlessly held out the thermometer. 103.

In the time it took for Steve and Sam to share a glance, Winter retreated back to the bed, still hunched over and clutching his stomach. “You've got a fever,” Sam said to him. “You should lie down; the best thing to do is get some rest.”

But Winter made no move towards the bed. He hunched down even farther, now staring at their feet. “I know what this is,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “It happened...before. Last time.”

After a moment, Steve understood. “When you ran away?”

Winter nodded jerkily. “They said...it would be worse next time. That I should know better. That I can't make it without their...m-medicine. That they'd take care of me....” A shudder ran through him, and he couldn't seem to stop shaking. But he still managed to say, “They...give me things. To stay sharp. Keep focused. Top of my game. And w-without them....”

Sam swore under his breath. Steve frowned and glanced between them, not sure he was following. Sam explained, “He's addicted to whatever they gave him. I bet they did that on purpose, so if he ever tried to run away, he'd start going through withdrawal and then he'd  _want_ to go back.”

The barely-suppressed rage in Sam's voice surprised Steve a little. He was just as disgusted with Hydra as Steve was, but he'd never reacted as strongly as Steve when he'd learned what Winter had been through. He was primarily here because Steve needed him; he didn't feel the same obligation to help Winter that Steve did. But something in his voice suggested this had just become personal.

Before he had a chance to ask him about it, Winter suddenly lurched forward. He crashed to his knees, his metal arm's grip on the bedpost the only thing saving him from falling flat on his face. Steve stepped forward, arms rising to catch him, but he forced himself to stop. He knew Winter would only try to pull back, and probably hurt himself in the process. Frustration and helplessness battled with his concern for Winter. It had been a long time since he had felt so impotent, watching a bad situation and knowing there was nothing he could do to fix it.

“You really need to get in bed, man,” Sam said, walking around to the far side of the bed and pulling down the covers. “It's going to get worse before it gets better.”

It seemed not even Winter could argue with that. Breathing raggedly and gripping the edge of the mattress, he managed to haul himself upright and collapse into bed. Steve longed to help him—how easy it would be to lift him into the bed!—but he could only stand there and watch.

Even when he was in the bed, Winter didn't relax. Instead of lying down, he hunched in a half-sitting position against the headboard. He was still shaking like a leaf, and he struggled to watch the others even though he looked like he would pass out any second.

“We've got something that will help bring your fever down,” Sam said. “I'll go get it.”

While he was gone, Steve watched Winter slide lower and lower on the headboard, though he tried valiantly to stay upright. His teeth were chattering loudly in the silence. Reluctantly, Steve brought up what he knew they were both thinking. “I'm sorry,” he said as gently as he could. “But you really are going to have to take off the mask. We won't be able to help you otherwise.”

Predictably, Winter's hand flew up to his mask, but this meant only his right arm was supporting him. It trembled and gave out, so he was finally lying more or less flat on his back. But he started gasping like he had the last time they'd suggested it, clutching his mask and staring around for an escape though Steve doubted he had the strength to even get out of bed right now.

“No...” Winter gasped in between wheezing breaths. “Don't...please don't....”

It was extremely frustrating to Steve that the most comforting thing he could do was probably stand as far away from him as possible. “It's okay,” he said in a low, even voice. “I'm not going to hurt you. But you need to take this pill for your fever, and if we're going to help you....”

“I think I have a solution,” Sam said behind him. He stepped into the room, holding the bottle of ibuprofen in one hand and a large blue bandanna in the other. “You can put this on,” he said to Winter, also speaking slowly and quietly when he saw Winter gasping like a drowning man. “That way you can still keep your face covered, but we can help you get a drink of water or something.”

“Does that sound all right?” Steve asked as Sam put the medicine and the bandanna on the bedside table.

Winter's desperate gasps were slowing down a little, and after a moment he nodded slowly.

“Just take one of these pills and let us know when you're done,” Steve said, stepping through the door. “We'll be right here in the hallway.”

After closing the door behind them, Steve watched Sam pace up and down the hallway. It was dark in here, with only the moonlight shining through the window. Even so, he could see Sam's fists opening and closing as he passed. “What's up?”

Sam came to a stop next to the window, swearing under his breath again. “Hydra,” he spat, crossing his arms as if to keep himself from hitting something. “Just when I thought they couldn't get any worse.”

He glanced over at Steve's inquisitive expression and sighed. “My brother,” he said heavily. “He fell in with a bad crowd in high school. Got into drugs.” He shook his head. “I tried to help him...but by the time he decided to go clean, his life was already in ruins. And when you haven't got much to come home to...it's hard to  _stay_ clean, you know? He's been in and out of rehab ever since. And to think they would  _force_ someone to go through that....” He shook his head again, jaw working silently.

“I'm sorry, Sam,” Steve said, crossing over to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I didn't know....”

Before Sam could reply, a tiny voice said from behind the door, “Okay....”

Giving Sam's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, Steve returned his attention to the task at hand. When they stepped back into the bedroom, they saw Winter without his mask for the first time. Of course, they couldn't see more than the contours of his face since it was covered completely by the bandanna, but the blue cloth lent a softness to his face that hadn't been there before.

“You should be feeling better soon,” Steve said, giving Winter an encouraging smile. “Try to get some sleep, all right?” He turned to Sam. “You go on back to bed; I'll take first watch.”

“You sure?” At Steve's nod, Sam yawned and waved to Winter as he turned to leave. “Holler if you need anything.”

Steve closed the door again, then stepped into the bathroom to run cold water over the washcloth hanging there. When he returned to Winter's side, he wasn't particularly surprised to see that he was still slumped against the headboard, trying to watch Steve's every move even though his eyelids were drooping.

“I'm going to put this on your forehead,” Steve said, raising the washcloth, “so lie down, okay?”

Winter's eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“It'll cool you down, make you a little more comfortable. You can take it off again if you don't like it,” he added, folding it into a rectangle.

Slowly, reluctantly, Winter slid down the rest of the way and finally laid his head on the pillow. Steve placed the wet washcloth on his forehead, careful not to actually touch his skin. Then he pulled over the chair from the corner of the room and sat down by the bed to watch over his charge. Winter seemed to fight it at first, but soon his eyelids dragged downwards and his breathing evened out.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The first day wasn't too bad. Winter slept through most of the night, and when Sam came in to relieve Steve in the morning, Winter was propping himself up on his metal elbow to take another pill. He moved slowly and carefully, using painstaking care to ensure that the glass wasn't pushing his bandanna up too far. But he needn't have worried; the cloth even covered most of his neck.

“Go on, take a nap,” Sam said to Steve. “I'll take over for a while.”

“I'll go to the store first,” Steve said, standing and stretching. “You need anything else for now, Winter?”

Winter tensed, then slowly shook his head. As Steve left the room, Sam called after him, “Try not to exude too much liberty and justice, or you'll blow our cover!”

“Shut up,” Steve called back good-naturedly as he descended the stairs.

Winter watched Sam warily, his bandanna fluttering with each tense breath. Sam pretended not to notice. “Door open or closed?”

Winter's eyes darted between Sam and the door, which Steve had left open. Slowly, he lowered himself back down to the pillow. “Open.”

With a nod, Sam sat down in the chair Steve had vacated and settled down for a long vigil. He noticed that Winter's hand was clenched around something under the sheets—probably a knife or something, just in case. Well, if it helped him feel more protected and in control, Sam supposed that was okay. And it would probably only cause more trouble to try to take it away. He just hoped Winter didn't accidentally stab himself in his sleep. He'd have to keep an eye on that.

Sam fiddled around on his phone until he heard Winter's breathing grow slower and deeper in sleep. Then Sam just watched his chest rise and fall, his hand occasionally twitching under the covers—his right hand, not the one holding the knife, thankfully.

If someone had told Sam a week ago where he would be.... Life was crazy. One minute you were an average guy living an average life, the next Captain America was on your doorstep asking you to hide him from the government. And before you could say  _Let me think about this for a second,_ you were nursing back to health an assassin who'd tried to kill you several times...and you felt like this was the most important thing you'd ever done. Including that time you'd saved Colonel Frankweiler's life.

Winter really was kind of amazing, Sam reflected as he watched the man shift restlessly in his sleep. To come from the kind of background Hydra had given him—brainwashing, amnesia, torture, addiction—and still be able to take advantage of a good thing when he saw it? As messed up as he was, as fragile as his trust was, there was an indomitable core of strength somewhere deep down in his cold and shriveled heart. Sam wondered what the main motivation had been for him to leave Hydra and join Steve—self-preservation? Or did he actually want to turn his life around and find a new identity?

That could make all the difference in the end. It would spell the distinction between Winter actually being rehabilitated, or just becoming as dependent on them as he had been on Hydra. It would be so easy for someone as needy as Winter to latch unhealthily onto someone so ready to give.

A sudden whimper broke Sam out of his reverie. Winter shifted in his sleep, head rolling from side to side as he tried to evade whatever horrors plagued his sleeping brain.

“Please...” he muttered, tugging weakly at the blanket like he was clawing for something to grab onto as he slipped over the edge of a cliff. “Stop.... I won't do it again....”

Sam plucked the washcloth from where it had fallen onto the pillow. It was warm from Winter's feverish skin, so Sam ran cold water over it again and gently dabbed at Winter's sweaty brow. Winter gasped at the touch, but he didn't wake up, and he fell still after that. Sam carefully placed the cloth on his brow and resumed his seat.

But of course, that was just the beginning. As time wore on, Winter's sleep grew more and more restless, and his sheets were soon soaked through even though he couldn't stop shaking. Sam did what he could to keep Winter comfortable, but he knew all they could really do was wait.

The worst part, Sam decided, was when Winter would talk in his sleep. Most of it was unintelligible mutters (some of which he was sure were different languages), but what words he did catch made him want to punch something. Mostly they were pleas, begging his invisible tormentors not to hurt him. And, interspersed through all of these pitiful pleas, every now and then would come a gravelly mutter, “Ready to comply.”

He wasn't sure why, but those three words sent a chill down his spine every time he heard them. And he was almost positive he heard the same thing in all those different languages too.

Steve and Sam soon found a routine, switching off for stretches of six hours so the other could get some rest. At first, it wasn't too hard to care for Winter—they just had to make sure to keep him hydrated and try to keep his fever down. After that first night, he didn't seem to have a problem with nausea again—though that might have been because his stomach was completely empty.

The real challenge started on Day Two. Sam had just been dozing off himself when Winter suddenly sat bolt upright in his bed and started screaming his head off. Jumping to his feet, Sam had to take a moment to still his own racing heart before moving to the bed. “It's okay, man, it's okay,” he said soothingly.

“No!” Winter yelled, flinging out his metal hand and catching Sam on the jaw.

Sam stumbled back with a grunt of pain, then looked up to see Steve standing in the doorway. Eyes wide, hair tousled, Steve looked as though he'd just rolled out of bed. But he seemed awake enough to grasp the situation, and hurried forward to help Sam. They each grabbed one of Winter's arms and held him down so he wouldn't hurt himself as he thrashed around. Winter was weak enough that Sam could hold down his right arm, but he highly doubted he could manage Winter's full strength.

“You're safe, Winter,” Steve murmured into his ear. Somehow he made it look like he was grasping Winter's hand in friendship even though his arms were straining a little to keep Winter's metal shoulder pressed against the pillow. “Remember where you are. Nothing's going to hurt you now. Nothing at all.”

Winter stopped struggling, but it seemed he was still hallucinating. “Not that... _please,_ not that.... I'll be good.... I promise I'll be good....”

They released him, but he kept mumbling to the demons only he could see. He rattled off what sounded like pleas in five different languages, his voice finally dying down into an unintelligible mumble.

Sam let out a long breath and shared a relieved look with Steve. Then he gingerly felt the bruise forming on his jaw. “That guy sure packs a wallop.”

“You should put some ice on that,” Steve said. “ I can take over from here.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, turning to go.

A weak murmur held him back. “Water....”

Winter's eyes were open now, and he blinked groggily at them as he croaked again, “Water....”

Steve quickly grabbed the glass of water on the bedside table and leaned over the bed. “Here....”

But suddenly Winter's eyes flew open all the way and he raised his hand, grabbing Steve's wrist. “Not you,” he gasped, then collapsed onto the pillow again. “ _Him...._ ”

They both looked at Winter in surprise. His shaky finger was pointing at Sam.

Sam blinked and shared a bemused look with Steve. If Winter were to pick the one he was more comfortable with to help him with something as potentially problematic as a drink, the obvious choice was Steve. He'd been gentler with Winter from the start, and he just gave off this...aura, for lack of a better word. He made you feel safe, and calm, and stronger than you were before. That was one of the things that had drawn Sam to him in the first place. Besides, with Winter he had a sort of supersoldier camaraderie, an immediate connection based on things Sam could never hope to fully understand.

Still, Winter had asked for him. It was probably the first time he'd expressed a preference without being prompted. So Sam shrugged and took Steve's place. He slid an arm under Winter's pillow and propped him up enough to let him sip from the glass Steve handed him. Steve retreated to his chair while Sam slipped the glass under Winter's bandanna and helped him slowly drink. Then he gently lowered Winter back onto the bed.

Winter already seemed to have fallen into a fitful sleep again. Gingerly prodding at his bruise, Sam left Steve to his vigil. He would probably spend the rest of his life wondering about Winter, and never really get a solid answer.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

While he didn't begrudge Winter a single minute of the time spent watching over him while he recovered, Steve had to admit it was tiring to take care of someone going through withdrawal, especially when he was so hard to restrain during his hallucinations. Steve was grateful for the chances he got to relax and leave the cabin entirely. Usually that meant just walking down to the stream or chopping firewood that they really didn't need yet. But he also liked going down to the little town in the valley to go shopping.

Silver Pines was a tiny town, far from pretty much everything noteworthy, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone. Thankfully, there seemed to be a steady enough trickle of campers and tourists that stuck around throughout the year that Steve's presence wasn't too conspicuous. He just told people who asked that he was staying in a cabin to draw the local flora and fauna, and waved his hand vaguely in the exact opposite direction from Natasha's cabin. People seemed to buy it. He'd told Sam to give people a completely different story, so hopefully no one would even connect them, let alone recognize them.

As small as Silver Pines was, they still had a small selection of shops that Steve browsed through when he went into town to get groceries. One he kept gravitating towards was the used bookshop, a cramped, musty-smelling haven piled high with books. There were never many shoppers in there at a time, and the owner seemed content to sit at the counter and read the newest acquisitions, so the store had the same hushed quality as a library.

Steve browsed through the shelves, finding some titles he knew among hundreds that he didn't. He'd gotten a lot of recommendations from people about things he'd missed under the ice, but most of them were either historical events or movies, it seemed. Not a whole lot of book recommendations. So he wasn't really looking for anything in particular (though he couldn't help snickering over a few vintage copies of Captain America comic books the store lovingly kept in plastic sleeves).

But then he found it, tucked away in a back corner next to the teen section for some reason. He almost didn't realize what it was, since the cover bore the picture of a grungy-looking movie star, but then he glanced at the book next to it and realized they were by the same author. So, because it was on his list and he remembered how much he and Bucky had enjoyed the first book in the series, he bought the whole trilogy.

It was probably because Bucky was on his mind, but he decided to read his new purchases aloud to Winter when he returned to the cabin. He could remember countless times that he'd been sick, and Bucky would come to visit with a book under his arm. He'd sit by Steve's bed, his warm, confident voice losing them both in the adventures of heroes who weren't short, skinny, and coughing their lungs out. A book always helped the hours pass quickly.

So, even though Winter was fast asleep, Steve cracked open the first book and began to read. “ _When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton._ ”

Steve soon realized that this book was quite different from the whimsical adventure tale he and Bucky had enjoyed reading together, but he soon became engrossed in this larger tale. He would read until his voice grew hoarse, whether Winter was awake or not. When he  _was_ lucid enough to realize what Steve was doing, Winter would sometimes look at him strangely, but he listened without saying a word. Sometimes Sam would join them too, after giving Steve a hard time for not having seen the movies yet.

Steve especially enjoyed reading about Sam Gamgee, and considering the similarities between the character and  _his_ Sam. Perhaps there weren't a lot—Sam Wilson wasn't a fat, furry-footed gardener, for one thing—but they shared the same loyalty, the same dedication to the man he'd chosen to follow. Samwise Gamgee didn't have to stick with Frodo to the bitter end. Frodo had actually tried to slip away without him. But Sam had followed him anyway, determined to help him see his quest through. Steve could definitely see his Sam in that.

The first time Gollum came onto the scene, Steve had to stop reading for a while. Bucky had made up a funny little voice for Gollum while reading  _The Hobbit,_ just to make Steve laugh. When he picked up the book again the next day, he didn't try to make a special voice for Gollum's lines of dialogue. He just sadly continued the story that Bucky would never hear the end of.

By the time he reached the end of the third book, Winter was awake for longer periods of time, watching him and listening to the story. It was hard to tell if he liked it or even understood it, what with the large chunks of narrative he must have missed while he was asleep. But Steve noticed that he seemed to have fewer panic attacks while Steve read. Maybe the constant sound of his voice helped ground him. Or maybe he found it just as comforting as Steve always had to devote his thoughts to someone who was strong, brave, and not confined to a bed.

Tears filled his eyes and the words swam across the page as he read the final struggle up the side of Mt. Doom. “ _'I said I'd carry him, if it broke my back,' he muttered, 'and I will! Come, Mr. Frodo!' he cried. 'I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get! Come on, Mr. Frodo dear! Sam will give you a ride. Just tell him where to go, and he'll go.'_ ”

Brushing his tears away, Steve lowered the book for a moment and glanced over at Winter. Their eyes met briefly, then Winter hastily looked away.  _And what about you, Winter?_ Steve thought.  _Will you let me carry you to the top of your mountain? Will you throw your ring in and let it be destroyed? I want to bring you out of Mordor, Winter. I want to take you there and back again._

_Will you let me?_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 _...who forgives all your sins_  
_And heals all your diseases,_  
 _Who redeems your life from the pit_  
 _And crowns you with love and compassion,_  
 _Who satisfies your desires with good things_  
 _So that your youth is renewed like the eagle's._

_\- Psalm 103:3-5_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have to admit the last scene of this chapter is a little self-indulgent ^^' One of the best things about the MCU taking place in the modern day is that you can easily imagine the characters experiencing some of the stories we know and love. And I am strongly in favor of the headcanon that Steve is a huge bookworm—it just makes sense that he would be, considering how sickly he was as a child. And The Hobbit was published in the U.S. in 1938, when Steve would have been 20, well before WWII, so it's entirely possible that he and Bucky would have read it! XD (LotR wasn't published until the '50s, though, so he wouldn't have had a chance to read it until after coming out from the ice. How bizarre must it be to wake up and discover that this little children's book has become this huge cultural phenomenon that spawned all these movies and jump-started an entire genre of fiction!)
> 
> This development of the story is based on several astute observations and interesting headcanons I've seen floating around about just how Hydra must have gone about getting the Winter Soldier to do what they wanted. (Most helpful was the bit of meta I found here: http://let-bucky-have-his-plums.tumblr.com/post/162475949562/secretlytodream-wintercyan-etharei) It was too intriguing to not play around with Winter going through withdrawal. And I didn't plan it, but that led to the sudden inspiration to flesh out Sam's backstory a little, because we really don't know much about his life before Cap. I'm sure there are other versions of his family and his past in different versions of the story, but since the MCU tells us absolutely nothing about his family, I'm exercising my artistic license here.


	4. Step into the Light

_Beginning_  
_Just let that word wash over you_  
_It's all right now_  
_Love's healing hands have pulled you through_  
_So get back up, take step one_  
_Leave the darkness, feel the sun_  
_Cause your story's far from over_  
_And your journey's just begun_

_..._

_Let every heartbreak_  
_And every scar_  
_Be a picture that reminds you_  
_Who has carried you this far_

_\- "Tell Your Heart to Beat Again" by Danny Gokey_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It was an exhausting, discouraging process to lead Winter through his withdrawal. In Sam's previous experience, it usually only took a few days for the drugs to run their course—a week at most. Then the real battle with the psychological side of addiction could begin. But with Winter, every time it looked like he was getting better, he would take a turn for the worse again. He would be able to sit up for a while and get a drink of water himself, but then a few hours would pass and his temperature would spike again, and he would be back to muttering to himself in Russian.

As best as Sam could figure it, Hydra had given him a carefully-scheduled series of drugs that would run out in a scattered pattern. That way, even if he  _did_ manage to get through one stage of his withdrawal on his own, he would be thrown right back into it again. He would think there was no escape from the pain except for returning to Hydra.

Sam wasn't sure what Steve's end goal was with this whole rehabilitation project, and he half expected Winter to just run away as soon as he physically could, but he hoped it involved destroying Hydra once and for all. There were several people who seriously needed to die.

But even though this was one of the hardest things any of them had ever done, they stuck it out because they didn't have any other choice. And even though it was much slower than any of them wished, Winter gradually began to recover. While he was sick as a dog, Sam hadn't wanted to risk giving him anything more substantial than water. But once his fever broke, Sam decided to try giving him some soup. He was starting to look awfully gaunt underneath all the blankets.

Ever since that first time Winter had insisted that Sam be the one to give him a drink, he hadn't changed his mind. Even if Sam was asleep, Steve would have to come wake him up because Winter stubbornly refused to so much as swallow a pill unless Sam was the one helping him. Sam was actually starting to wonder if Winter took a vindictive pleasure in making life difficult for him.

So it was Sam who brought in the steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. “Hungry?” he asked as he saw Winter eyeing the bowl warily.

Winter shook his head, even as his stomach growled loudly.

With a chuckle, Sam set the bowl down on the bedside table and helped Winter sit up against the headboard. “Wanna try feeding yourself, or should I do it?”

But it became obvious almost immediately that Winter's hands were shaking too much to even hold the spoon, so Sam lifted it for him. After helping him drink so many times, Sam had discovered that the best way to do it was to let Winter pull the bandanna aside slightly, then slip the spoon under it and let him eat the soup.

Winter swallowed the first spoonful of soup, and Sam went to scoop up some more, when Winter suddenly gasped and went rigid. “What is it?” Sam asked calmly, setting the bowl aside. He had grown far too used to Winter's panic attacks by now, and he knew that the best way to head them off before they got out of control was just to speak calmly to him.

“I can't,” Winter wheezed. “Please...don't make me...again....”

Then Sam noticed the way he was clutching his shirt, right over his stomach. He remembered how all of this had started, with Winter throwing up after eating a sandwich. That had been the only thing he'd eaten since leaving Hydra. “Are you afraid it's going to hurt again?”

Winter's eyes squeezed shut. “Haven't eaten...in so long....  _They..._ just used tubes....” He gestured vaguely and shook his head. “So I can't.”

Sam thought he understood what Winter's halting words meant (and it was probably the most Winter had ever said to him in one go, which showed how desperate he was). If Hydra had just fed him with tubes, his body wouldn't be ready to handle solid food. No wonder he'd had trouble with the sandwich.

“Okay, we'll take it slow,” he said. “We'll get you used to eating again, don't worry. Just tell me if it starts to hurt, and I'll stop.”

Winter peeked at him through the long, greasy strands of his hair. “Don't want it to hurt.”

“I wouldn't either, but you have to eat,” Sam said doggedly. “You're skin and bones already; you can't afford to lose any more weight. My mom would scream if she saw you—and not because you look like a hobo robbing a bank, either. She'd flay me alive if I didn't put some meat back on those bones.” He smiled, noticing that Winter had calmed down considerably as he tried to follow the conversation. “Look at it this way—you've had one spoonful so far. Does it hurt?”

Winter shook his head.

“Then surely one more won't make it any worse.” He raised the spoon. “Come on, what do you say? Give it a shot, and we'll see what happens.”

Slowly, Winter lifted the corner of the bandanna and let Sam feed him another mouthful of soup.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve tried not to let on how excited he was when he noticed that Winter was growing more comfortable with them touching him. If he made any mention of it, Winter might get spooked and go right back to square one, and it would be that much harder to take care of him. But as long as they told him what they were going to do, he no longer flinched when they washed the sweat from his forehead. When they helped him stagger into the bathroom (keeping the door ajar, but stepping outside to give him some privacy), he let them grasp his elbow or his shoulder when he stumbled, and the touch of their hands no longer led to outright panic.

Once Sam finally got him to eat, sticking to small portions of very bland foods like toast and bananas, Steve brought up a subject he expected to be unwelcome.

“You've been lying in bed for such a long time,” he said to Winter one day. The man looked up at him warily, but said nothing. “You've grown so weak. I think you should try walking a little, just to get your strength back.”

Winter visibly relaxed. “Walking?”

“Just up and down the hallway for starters. I'll be right there to help you, to make sure you don't fall.”

He held out a hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Winter grasped it with his metal hand and let Steve pull him upright. He wobbled a little on his feet, but Steve looped the metal arm through his and said, “Come on, one step at a time. Lean on me if you stumble, okay?”

Steve could feel Winter trembling even through the metal arm, but he wasn't sure if it was because of weakness or nerves. He hoped touching the metal arm was easier for him, since Winter couldn't feel the contact. Either way, Winter took one unsteady step forward, then another. Steve walked alongside him, supporting his weight and murmuring encouragement along the way.

“That's it.... See, we're already heading through the door.... Just a few more steps.... Good....”

But it became obvious when they reached the end of the hallway that Winter was too weak to make it back. He leaned against the wall to muster his strength, but then his knees buckled and he slid down to the floor. Steve made sure he didn't hurt himself on the way down, then squatted next to him and let him catch his breath.

“Can I carry you back?” he asked softly. “You did really good for a first try, but you've earned a rest.”

Winter contemplated the long stretch of hallway to the door of his room. Steve waited for him to refuse, to insist he could make it on his own. He didn't trust Steve enough to willingly put himself in such a vulnerable position. Steve couldn't blame him, either—it would be an embarrassing, awkward prospect for any grown man to have to be carried, regardless of his past. So he was taken aback when Winter took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then said, “Yes.”

Steve tried not to show how shocked he was, but pretended this was completely normal. “You ready?” he asked. Once Winter nodded, he put one arm around Winter's shoulders and tucked one under his knees, then got to his feet. It was ludicrously easy to carry him. Winter was supposed to be as strong as he was, not collapsing after walking down one hallway and then feeling as light as a feather in his arms.

Winter was tense as Steve carried him back to his room, keeping his arms tucked close to his body. But he remained calm and let Steve settle him back in bed. He looked exhausted, and by the time Steve pulled the covers up to his chin, his eyes were already sliding shut.

Winter's health steadily improved after that. Every day, he could stay on his feet longer and walk farther. The exercise seemed to increase his appetite, and soon Sam was tempting him with meat and even some fruits and vegetables.

A truly momentous occasion came one day when Sam brought in a plate of chicken with some kind of tangy, citrusy sauce that made Steve's mouth water. Apparently it had the same effect on Winter, who sat up straight. He was able to feed himself now, so Sam put the plate on the bedside table and turned to go. Steve got to his feet, keen to try some of the chicken himself, when Winter suddenly said, “I remember this.”

Steve and Sam both stared at him, sure they had heard wrong. Or at least that they had mistaken his meaning.

But Winter finished chewing his bite of chicken and looked up at them. “I've eaten this before.”

Sam frowned in confusion. “But that's my mom's secret recipe.”

“Something like it, then,” Winter said, slipping another piece under the bandanna and chewing thoughtfully. “I know I've eaten this before...but I can't remember where.”

After that, Sam seemed to see it as his solemn duty to introduce Winter to as many different dishes as possible, in the hopes of sparking some fleeting memory. Steve chipped in when he could, but his menu seemed rather bland and uninspired compared to Sam's enthusiastic culinary experiments. Sam would proudly set a chicken pot pie or a heap of spaghetti in front of Winter and say, “Okay, tell me how good this is on a scale of one to ten!”

At first Winter stared at him like he'd sprouted another head, but slowly he started responding. Sometimes, after Sam had been slaving away in the kitchen for hours, Winter would look up from his first bite and say flatly, “Two.” And while Sam ranted about how he'd put his heart and soul into that enchilada and how could Winter be so ungrateful...Steve could almost swear he saw a twinkle of humor in Winter's eye.

He was therefore a little confused when he made a steak dinner one night, spiced simply with peas and mashed potatoes on the side, and Winter quietly said, “Ten.” Steve looked at him in surprise, searching for the hint of humor he showed Sam, but there was none. He just ate another forkful of potatoes and quietly repeated, “Ten.”

Maybe he was remembering eating this before. Or something like it.

Once Winter was a little more steady on his feet, and could make trips down the stairs and back up again without having to stop, Steve suggested he try a shower. Winter had refused point-blank to let them change his clothes, but once he was able to, he'd at least started changing his clothes himself. But other than a couple sponge baths, he hadn't washed since he'd first fallen ill, and that couldn't be any more pleasant for him than it was for them.

Eventually, they decided that Winter could lock the door if Steve sat right outside the bathroom in case Winter needed help. Steve settled into his chair, picking up a book to read. But the sound of running water had barely started when he heard a loud, shuddering gasp, then a clatter and a thunk as though something heavy had hit the ground.

Steve stood in alarm. “Winter? Are you okay?”

He couldn't hear anything until he pressed his ear against the door. Beneath the sound of the shower, a tiny terrified voice mumbled, “No...please don't...not again....”

Steve put his hand on the doorknob, but stopped himself before he could even try to turn it. He wasn't sure how helpful he would be on the other side of the door, but he didn't have much choice. “You're safe, Winter. Remember where you are. Nothing is going to hurt you here.”

The harsh, breathless sob echoing around the bathroom nearly broke Steve's heart. “I don't want to....”

Steve rested his forehead against the closed door. “Winter...please let me help.”

He wasn't sure how long he waited, but it seemed like a long time before he heard the lock click. In between the hiccuping sobs, he heard a muffled, “Please....”

That was all the invitation Steve needed. He carefully opened the door, and found Winter kneeling on the floor in the middle of the bathroom—completely naked, dripping wet, and clutching the hand towel to his face like his life depended on it. His eyes were wide with terror, and he shook all over as he gasped for breath.

Steve slipped through the door and closed it softly behind him. “Hey,” he said, grabbing the towel from the hook on the back of the door and draping it around Winter's shoulders. “You're going to be all right.”

But Winter didn't seem to hear him. He stared straight ahead, his breath wheezing through his throat as he gasped behind the protection of the towel. With every gasp, Steve could see Winter's chest heaving, turning each breath into a choked sob. Winter was still far too skinny, though Sam's cooking was starting to fill him out again. But it wasn't right for a supersoldier whose bones and muscles were ten times stronger than the average man to look so _weak._

And the scars. Steve should have been ready to see them; he knew what kind of life Winter had led for the past fifty years. But seeing Winter's body without a stitch of clothing shattered what little of Steve's heart remained intact. Gunshot wounds, crisscrossing lines of white and red, twisted burn scars.... Winter's body was similar to his own, so Steve knew how good it must be at healing and regeneration. He knew how few scars he had, even with all the battles he'd fought and the wounds he'd sustained. It took a grievous wound indeed to leave a scar.

So for Winter to have so many....

“Oh, Winter....”

At his words, Winter's gaze shifted to him for the first time, like he suddenly realized where he was. He drew in a great, shuddering breath and let it out as a cough. Tears spilled down over his fingers clutching the towel to his face. He crouched down, leaning forward until his forehead almost touched the floor. A thin whine escaped him, like a wordless plea for help.

There was a small closet in the corner of the bathroom, which contained a couple extra towels. Steve grabbed one and awkwardly tied it around Winter's waist. Then he sank onto the floor next to Winter, slowly using the towel around his shoulders to dry off his back.

“Just breathe, Winter. Can you do that for me? Breathe in through your nose, then out through your mouth. Nice, deep breaths. That's it. Just keep breathing, that's all you have to think about right now. In...and out. In...out....”

Winter followed his advice, still hunched over with his face out of sight. His back rose and fell as he struggled to match his breathing to the rhythm of Steve's words. As he spoke, Steve kept rubbing Winter dry, always keeping one end of the towel covering his back by placing his hand there.

And slowly, slowly Winter's breathing deepened and steadied. His sobbing gasps died away. He still shivered occasionally, but Steve hoped it was mostly because he was kneeling on cold tiles with barely anything on.

Finally Winter sat up again. He sniffled a little behind the towel. “Where am I?” he asked in a tiny voice.

“In a cabin in West Virginia,” Steve said, gently squeezing out the ends of Winter's hair. “Remember? You're here with me and Sam.”

Winter buried his whole face in the towel. “You're not going to put me in the ice again, are you?”

“What? No, of course I'm not.”

Another shudder racked his body and he whispered, “Don't let _them_ do it either. Please?”

Steve glanced up at the shower, which was still spraying water. He could see the steam rising from it now, turning the whole room warm and humid. But he hadn't thought to warn Winter that the water would be cold when he first turned it on. Winter must've gotten a blast of icy-cold water in the face, and in his confusion couldn't tell if he was being put in a cryo chamber or not.

“Winter, look at me.” He waited until Winter cautiously peeked over the edge of the hand towel. Steve wrapped the other towel around Winter's shoulders again, so he could place his hands on Winter's mismatched shoulders and squeeze them gently through the protective layer of cloth. “I promise you one thing. If they want to put you in the ice again, they'll have to kill me first, because I will _die_ before I let them take you.”

Winter held his gaze longer than he ever had before. Steve couldn't tell what he was thinking; a myriad of emotions swirled in his eyes. He supposed it was too much to hope that Winter would trust him. He probably thought this was all an elaborate plot Steve had concocted to get him to follow Steve's orders rather than Hydra's. And with decades of a life like his, who could blame him?

“Don't die,” Winter said suddenly.

“What?”

“You said you would die. Well...don't.”

Steve smiled and tucked the towel more snugly around Winter's shoulders, then sat back on his heels. “Yes, sir.”

Winter shivered again, and Steve noticed the goosebumps rising on his right arm. “You look cold. Why don't you finish your shower? It'll be nice to be clean and dry again.”

Warily, Winter glanced over at the spray of water still splashing into the tub. He seemed to be debating whether cleanliness was worth the risk.

“Don't worry,” Steve said, “it's not cold anymore.” He scooted over to the side of the tub and held his hand in the warm spray. “Here, give me your hand and I'll show you.”

Winter tensed when Steve held out his other hand, but Steve kept his expression calm and encouraging. He hoped Winter wouldn't have to deal with a second panic attack right on the heels of the first. But after staring at Steve's hand for a long time, Winter shifted his metal hand to hold the towel up to his face, and tentatively extended his right hand towards Steve.

Though he could easily have reached out to grab Winter's hand, Steve waited until Winter gingerly touched their palms together. Then Steve turned Winter's hand over so it lay cradled, palm up, in Steve's hand. Holding their arms parallel, Steve guided Winter's hand to the water. When they were close enough to feel a slight misting, Winter tried to jerk back. Steve held his hand there with a loose loop of his thumb and pinky—an easy hold to break if Winter really wanted to, but it stopped his wrist from sliding back involuntarily.

Then warm water from the shower washed over their fingers. Winter started slightly as goosebumps rose along his arm again, but he didn't pull back. His hand, which was clenched into a white-knuckled fist, slowly uncurled like a flower opening to the light.

Steve released Winter's hand, letting his own hand drop away. Just like a child learning how to swim, at first Winter wavered, but then he kept his hand in the water. Maybe he even enjoyed it.

“You see?” Steve said gently. “You just have to wait for the water to warm up before you get in. Nothing to worry about. Now, do you want to go ahead and take your shower, or should we turn it off and wait for later?”

Winter let his hand drop down from the water and return to the towel around his face. He let out a sigh, almost as if to test and make sure his breath wouldn't choke in his throat anymore. “Now is okay.”

“All right.” Steve got to his feet and headed for the door. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He probably imagined it, but as he closed the door behind him, he thought he heard a halting whisper of, “Thank you.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in._

_\- Revelation 3:20_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure why I decided Sam is an excellent chef. Maybe because he's one of the few Avengers we actually see/hear about fixing a meal? XD Before I knew it, I had decided Sam must be someone who not only loves cooking, but loves experimenting with interesting dishes to please others. I love imagining him trying to teach Vision how to cook :P


	5. Lines of Red

_I see you walking by_  
_Your hair always hiding your face_  
_I wonder why you've been hurting_  
_I wish I had some way to say_  
  
_You're going through so much_  
_Don't you know that I could be the one to hold you?_

_\- “Yours to Hold” by Skillet_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The Winter who left his sickbed behind was a different man from the Winter they'd first met. He was still awkward and liked to hang back in the corners of a room so he could watch what they were doing rather than participate...but he seemed much more comfortable around Steve and Sam now. The suspicious tension that had held him back from even accepting their help had faded away.

He still had panic attacks (after his first experience with the toaster, he ate his bread cold unless someone offered to toast it for him), and often Steve would wake in the middle of the night to hear him muttering restlessly in his sleep, but he was much calmer now. Of course, he still insisted on wearing his mask at all times, and retreated into the bathroom to eat his meals. But he usually ate quickly and came out to sit at the table when they were only halfway through with theirs.

Now that Winter had his strength back, they could focus on reintroducing him to the normal life that had been stolen from him. Developing predictable routines seemed to help a lot, because then Winter could anticipate what was coming next even if all of their activities were new and strange to him. Sam taught him how to wash the dishes, and that became his job every day. Steve hoped he did it because he wanted to be helpful, and not because he was afraid they would get angry if he refused. They went on walks, cleaned up around the house, discussed what they were going to fix for their next meal. Steve sketched the mountains surrounding them, Sam gathered colorful leaves fallen from the trees, and Winter sat mesmerized for hours by the little stream out back, just watching the water trickle through the rocks.

It was very peaceful, other than the occasional nightmare or panic attack. It was doing them all good to just take a step back and not have to worry about anything beyond the next day. Steve actually dared to hope that Winter was happy at last.

He got his first indication otherwise after he finally bought some new clothes for Winter. He'd been wearing Steve's spare clothes, but they really were too big for him, and Steve wanted to make sure he was dressed warmly as the days got colder. So one day he came back from the store with several bags full of clothes he'd picked out based on how his own clothes fit on Winter.

“These are...for me?” Winter said slowly, staring at the mountain of bags that Steve had placed before him on the coffee table.

“That's right—all yours!” Steve grinned as he started pulling the clothes out to show him. “Here's a nice fleece-lined coat to keep you warm when it snows. And I got you a bunch of shirts—I wasn't sure what colors you like, so I just got one of each. I wanted to get you some new shoes, but for that you'd kind of have to be there....”

“You mean...” Winter interrupted, “I can keep these? They're...mine?” He held a set of dark blue pajamas Steve hadn't been able to resist, printed with snowmen and mugs of hot chocolate. Large letters embroidered across the shirt spelled _Winter Is Here._

Winter had never had anything he could call his own, had he? Even his knives and guns, even the clothes on his back, had been Hydra's property.  _He_ had been considered Hydra's property. Putting clothes on him had been like putting a saddle on a horse—something to improve his effectiveness, not something to give him comfort.  _Definitely_ not something he could own.

Winter didn't seem to know what to say, his arms overflowing with sweatshirts and socks and jeans. Steve just smiled and helped him take his new purchases upstairs.

They had taught Winter how to do his own laundry, out of a desire to help him gain control over as many parts of his life as possible. If he could learn how to take care of himself, he wouldn't have to stay dependent on them. It might seem like an insignificant thing, but every life skill he acquired empowered him a little bit more. Winter didn't seem to mind; if anything, having small responsibilities around the house made him calmer than when they didn't ask him to do anything at all. It probably felt somewhat familiar, a little like when he had missions laid out in front of him and he knew what he was supposed to do.

So Steve hadn't seen the clothes he'd lent until Winter gave them back after washing them one final time. And Steve might not have noticed anything was amiss if the sleeve of one of his hooded sweatshirts  hadn't gotten pulled inside-out as he was hanging it up in his closet. As he reached to pull it right, he noticed several reddish-brown stains streaked across the inside of the sleeve.

Steve rubbed at the marks, but after going through the washer and dryer without soaking the shirt first, they were there to stay. The fabric of the shirt was thick enough that the stains weren't visible from the outside...but where did they come from? Was Winter's metal arm leaking some kind of fluid? No, this was the right arm. A quick check confirmed that the stains were only inside the right arm...most of them on the underside of the forearm....

No, no, he shouldn't jump to conclusions. This didn't necessarily mean what he thought it meant. He needed to make sure he was right before he did anything.

But after this, Steve kept a careful eye on Winter, a sliver of unease settling in his stomach. For several days, he didn't notice anything amiss, but then one day he offered to wash the dishes and let Winter dry. As Winter reached overhead to put a few glasses back in the cupboard, Steve glanced over and spotted an unmistakable red line across his forearm.

As he continued to wash the dishes, Steve tried not to let any of his shock or worry show on his face. He examined his memory of the glimpse he'd caught of Winter's arm. Erskine's serum had enhanced his cells such that he had photographic memory now—a mixed blessing, but at least it meant he could be sure that he remembered it accurately. The cut was definitely recent—still red, barely scabbed over—and it looked like another one crossed the first like an X. He knew for a fact that Winter hadn't had any cuts like that while he'd been sick, so it had to have happened in the last week or two. He felt sick.

“Sam,” he said in an undertone after the dishes were done and Winter was safely upstairs in the shower. “I...I think Winter is cutting himself.”

Sam slowly put down the book he'd been reading. “You sure?”

Steve explained what he had seen, pacing restlessly as he spoke. Finally he sank into the armchair across from Sam's and ran a hand through his hair. “I can't believe he would do something like this. Is he...does he want to...die?”

“Suicide isn't the only reason people cut themselves,” Sam said, unbelievably calm for someone who'd just learned his friend was slicing his arm open. “He's just overcome his physical dependence on those Hydra drugs, but that doesn't take away the desire for _something._ He's trying to find something to fill that hole.”

“By _hurting_ himself?”

Sam smiled humorlessly. “Pain's all he's known for so long. It must be...familiar. He knows how to deal with it, so that's what he turns to when he doesn't know how to deal with all this.” He waved his hand to indicate the warmly-lit room with soft couches and homely watercolor paintings on the walls.

Steve rubbed a hand across his eyes. “What do we do? What do we say to him?”

“We'll have to do it carefully,” Sam said slowly. “If he feels trapped, or we make him feel guilty about it...he won't accept our help. The bottom line is that we want to help him, not push him away.”

Steve laughed hollowly. “This will be a fun conversation.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They decided to confront Winter after lunch the next day. After he joined them at the table and they finished their meal, Winter rose to gather up the dishes as usual.

“Wait,” Steve said. “There's something we need to talk about.”

Winter looked warily between the two of them, slowly straightening up again. Steve glanced over at Sam, who nodded encouragingly.

Taking a deep breath, Steve said in the gentlest voice he could manage, “I...noticed something the other day, so I just want to know.... Um, I guess there's...not really any point in beating about the bush, so I'll just ask: Have you been cutting yourself?”

Winter immediately stiffened and backed away until he hit the sink. He didn't say anything, but the hand clutching his right arm made that unnecessary. Steve and Sam remained sitting calmly at the table with their hands in plain sight, not blocking the way to the door or making any movement towards him. Winter's eyes flicked to the front door and the nearest window, but he didn't move.

“We just want to help,” Steve said, wishing he knew what was going on inside Winter's head. “Won't you talk to us? Help us understand.”

But Winter stood silently, staring at the floor with hunched shoulders.

“If we know what makes you feel like you need to do this,” Sam said quietly, “maybe we can help you stop.”

Winter abruptly pushed away from the counter and headed straight for the front door. They didn't try to stop him, though Steve's heart sank to his toes. He was half afraid Winter would just run away right then and never come back, but he stopped at the edge of the porch and stared out at the trees.

Steve sighed. “That could have gone better.”

“Could've gone worse too,” Sam pointed out. “It's going to be a long struggle—probably even longer and harder than it took to get him off the drugs in the first place. He has access to a _lot_ of things that can give him a fix.”

He realized Sam was right. There were all kinds of sharp knives in the kitchen, not to mention his own knives that he'd brought with him. There was a box cutter lying in plain sight on a shelf in the laundry room...they all had razors.... And he was sure Winter could find other things to cut himself with if he really wanted to—pins, nails, broken glass.... “I guess there wouldn't be much point in taking his knives away, then.”

“Unless he _wants_ to stop, I'm not sure taking them away would be a good idea anyway,” Sam said reluctantly. “One of the main reasons people start cutting is because they don't feel like they have any control over their own life, and that's _definitely_ the case for Winter. Taking things against his will might just make it all worse.”

Steve felt so  _helpless._ This time, it was mostly up to Winter. He couldn't help him if Winter didn't want to be helped.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve was used to knowing what to do. He knew what was right and what was wrong, and when he saw someone doing something wrong, he tried to stop them. It was usually quite simple, especially once he'd become ten times stronger than the average man. If they wouldn't listen to reason, he could usually just punch them and convince them to stop that way.

But this time, even though he knew what Winter was doing and believed with all his heart that it was wrong, there was next to nothing he could do about it. He was afraid of nagging Winter about it, afraid of the damage it could do if they tried to force him to stop. They couldn't drive him away; he wouldn't be safe on his own. But Winter didn't seem to have any intentions of stopping this dangerous new habit.

Now that Winter's problem was out in the open, the calm that had settled over the cabin became strained and tense. They went through the same routines as before, but it seemed that they all eyed each other warily every time they entered a room. Steve couldn't keep from glancing at Winter's right arm, even when it was completely covered, to see if there were any new cuts. The few times he was able to catch a glimpse, there were.

Steve felt a jerk in his gut every time he saw the cuts. He just didn't understand why Winter would want to do this. But it seemed his life—the life  _they_ were trying to give him—was so difficult that mutilating his own flesh was the only way he could cope. Sam tried to explain it to him several times, but it just didn't make sense. He couldn't fathom how Winter could  _want_ to feel more pain.

For a few days, nothing more was said about the issue. Winter didn't leave, but he also didn't stop cutting himself. But one day as Winter passed him in the downstairs hallway, Steve couldn't keep quiet.

“You're bleeding,” he said, pointing at a trail of blood trickling over the back of his hand.

Winter started, looked down, and gripped his right arm defensively.

“Here,” Steve said, leading the way to the kitchen. “Let's take care of that.”

To his slight surprise, Winter followed him, though he dragged his feet and only reluctantly sat down at the table when Steve pointedly pulled out one of the bar stools for him. Steve grabbed the first aid kit from one of the higher cabinets and sat down next to Winter.

Winter hesitated, but after a moment he put his blood-streaked hand on top of the table and allowed Steve to gingerly pull up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The bleeding cut was deeper than most of the little ones surrounding it, slicing right across one of the bluish veins close to the surface of his skin. It was too deep to close on its own.

“I'm going to clean it first,” Steve said. “This will sting a bit.”

Winter's fingers twitched as Steve wiped the cut with alcohol, but he held still and let Steve finish. As he worked, Steve couldn't help eyeing the other cuts criss-crossing Winter's arm. Because of his enhanced healing abilities, a few of the smaller ones were beginning to fade, but most of them were still red and raised, barely starting to heal.

“You've _got_ to stop doing this, Winter,” Steve said, holding a dressing to the cut.

“Why?”

“Because it's wrong to hurt people,” he said shortly, wrapping a bandage securely around the wound. “And that includes yourself.”

He looked up and found Winter staring at him with surprise and confusion, almost as if...as if he didn't  _know_ it was wrong to hurt people. How could he? Under Hydra's care, probably a day hadn't gone by without him being hurt or ordered to hurt someone else. For him, that was  _normal._

“Well...think of it like this,” he said slowly, trying to figure out how to explain what had always been instinctively obvious to him. “You don't want to hurt me, right? Why is that?”

“Because you would get angry,” Winter replied without hesitation.

Steve tried not to be disappointed. He couldn't exactly expect anything else, considering Winter's background. It would take a lot longer than this before Winter truly understood friendship, or before he could look beyond his own safety. “I certainly wouldn't like it,” he conceded, rolling up the rest of the bandages and putting them back in the first aid kit. “I don't like to feel pain. Do you?”

Winter started to shake his head, then stopped, staring with furrowed brow down at the table. He pulled his arm back and cradled it against his chest.

“That's why it would be wrong for me to hurt you,” Steve continued gently, wishing he knew what Winter was thinking. “Have you ever heard of the Golden Rule? 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.' It means that you should treat others the way you want to be treated. A good rule to live by. So if I don't want to be hurt, then I shouldn't hurt other people either.”

Winter looked like he was wrestling with a difficult concept, trying to find the right words to address it. “But...that's not...it doesn't work like that,” he finally said. “People aren't like that.”

“Maybe the world isn't like that,” Steve admitted, “but that's how it _should_ be. And I don't think we should settle for anything less.”

Steve got up to put the first aid kit away and left Winter to ponder that for himself.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam hadn't known Steve Rogers very long before he found himself trusting him—and not just trusting in his good heart and unflagging desire for the good of others, but also relying on his leadership abilities. He had proven himself more than capable of developing strategies for what needed to be done, and delegating tasks according to everyone's strengths. Steve moved with a confidence and steady assurance that made you believe in him so strongly you would do anything he asked of you.

Even when Sam had disagreed with Steve, and cautioned him that his plan to save Winter wouldn't work...well, he'd been proven wrong, hadn't he? Steve's optimism had won out in the end; Winter had agreed to leave Hydra and accept their help. Sam's fears were allayed, and his faith in Steve's leadership was stronger than ever.

So Sam wasn't prepared for a Steve Rogers who didn't know what to do. Steve seemed to be at a complete loss over Winter's new problem. He'd never had to deal with anything like it himself, so he didn't understand why Winter was doing it or why it was so hard to stop. Even worse, he took all the blame on himself. Sam could see the guilt painted on his face, creasing it deeper and deeper with worry every day. He had never seemed to understand that just because Hydra had been trying to make their own Captain America, that didn't mean Winter's problems were his _fault._

To be honest, Sam wasn't quite sure what to do either. He'd never struggled with self-harm himself, but every so often someone at the VA would talk to him about it. The difference was that they usually realized it was a problem, and came to him because they wanted to stop. If the situation were different, he would suggest getting Winter checked into a psychiatric ward where he would be  _forced_ to stop and could have access to antidepressants and expert counseling...but that really wasn't an option. Even if Winter wasn't on the run from the law as well as Hydra, something like that would do irreparable damage. He had just begun to trust them. They couldn't let him down now.

So Sam did what he could. It wasn't much—it wasn't  _enough—_ but what more could he do? It soon became clear that Winter was trying harder than ever to hide his cuts from them, to the point that he would tense up if either of them touched or even  _looked_ at his arms. And sometimes, the way he sat or the way he walked made Sam wonder if he was...branching out. Finding other places to cut.

One day, Sam noticed the way Winter was holding his arm and pulled him aside. He took the first aid kit and showed Winter how to clean and take care of his cuts himself. Winter refused to meet Sam's eyes, but he seemed to pay attention. If he was determined to continue what he was doing, at least he could make sure his cuts didn't get infected. Sam hoped Winter would realize how much they wanted to help him, and that he would remember that he  _could_ come to them for help.

But Winter seemed resolved to face this darkness on his own. Once he knew how to take care of his own cuts, they saw even less of him than before. He would spend long hours in his room, and they could only wonder with fear at what he was doing. When Sam tried to talk to him, he only got shrugs and single-word responses.

The most frustrating thing was knowing how much this was hurting Steve, and not really being able to do anything about it. For the most part, Sam had always stepped back and let Steve take the lead with Winter—as he took the lead with everything else. Sam was used to being a follower, but it also made sense that Winter would be more comfortable around Steve. There had always been something special about their relationship. Steve had been the one to convince Winter to turn over a new leaf, and he was usually the one to have those important heart-to-heart conversations that had made Winter so much more stable.

Now...there was a tension between them. Sam wasn't sure if something had happened—if they'd had an argument in one of those little conversations, or if Steve had said something that Winter had taken the wrong way—or if it was just that Winter could tell how strongly Steve felt that the cutting was  _wrong,_ and thought that Steve had a problem with him personally. But the relationship that had looked so promising was beginning to crumble.

And that bothered Steve. Sam wondered if Winter could see just how  _much_ it bothered him. He had started to care for Winter as soon as he'd discovered what Hydra had done to him. He'd cared for him when Winter was trying to kill them, when he suspected them, when he wouldn't let them anywhere near him, even when he demanded all of their time and could offer nothing in return. When he was lying helpless in bed, Steve had cared for him. When Winter was ranting and flailing at the mercy of a thousand imagined fears, Steve had cared for him. He had done nothing but pour out his heart for this man...and Winter couldn't seem to see any of that.

To be fair, Sam understood why. Nothing that Steve did made any sense to Winter. It would be like someone yelling  _I love you_ to Sam in French. He wouldn't know what they were saying, or how to respond. He might even think they were threatening him.

But Steve deserved so much more. He deserved to have Winter as a friend who would give back every ounce of the love he received, and then some. Steve deserved the Winter hiding behind all that fear and pain, the Winter that Winter could become.

Sam looked for that Winter every day, waiting for the moment he would finally step into the light.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you._

_\- Matthew 7:12_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, maybe my choice of Bible verse is a bit of a cop-out this time, but I wanted to make sure everyone knew where that comes from :P
> 
> I've been a little nervous about the developments of this chapter, so I hope I've done it justice. I'm not writing from personal experience here, except indirectly, but I've tried to be thoughtful and respectful of this very real struggle that many people face. I certainly don't include it lightly or just for angst. It seemed like a natural development after Winter gets over his physical dependence on the Hydra drugs. The psychological side of addiction is much harder to shake, and often it means simply turning to a different addiction to fulfill that urge. Since Winter doesn't have access to Hydra drugs, and probably doesn't even know what they all are, cutting would seem like a convenient alternative.
> 
> Just remember what the Scarecrow says in The Wizard of Oz: “It's got to get darker before it gets lighter!”


	6. On the Edge of a Knife

_Sometimes the edge serves as more of a friend than you thought it would be_  
_And the pages you write in your journal each night are your only release_  
_And the mask you put on, it's like words in a song but there's more to be seen_  
_And the failures you see don't seem failures to me here at all_

_..._

_There's nothing to run from, no_  
_There's nothing but fear inside you_  
_Oh, I just hope I can find you_  
_And tell you that I know you'll smile again_

_\- “Life Left to Go” by SafetySuit_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Every day, Steve woke to the same cold pit of dread settling in his stomach. He caught himself almost longing for the days Winter had been fighting off the effects of withdrawal, because then he didn't have to sit there worrying about what Winter was up to. He didn't have to wonder what _he_ was doing wrong, and why everything only seemed to get worse and worse between them.

He'd thought they were making progress. He'd hoped that maybe Winter had actually begun to trust him enough to call him a friend. But every time Winter looked in Steve's direction, his eyes burned with some emotion Steve couldn't read. It was his fault somehow, but because he didn't know what he was doing wrong, he didn't know how to fix it.

So when he realized they were already halfway through December, he determined to make this the best Christmas any of them had ever had. He wanted to give Sam a break from all the hard work he'd put in over the last few months, and give Winter a chance to experience all the traditional festivities for perhaps the first time.

He found a pine tree of the perfect size in the woods surrounding their cabin, chopped it down, and carried it home over one shoulder so he could set it up in the living room. Sam enthusiastically joined him in decorating it, while Winter watched on the sidelines, looking bemused. Steve kept the fireplace well stocked, a cheerful blaze crackling away at all times, and sometimes they roasted marshmallows over it just for fun.

Sam's culinary experiments started focusing on cinnamon and peppermint, and one day he spent hours painstakingly crafting a gingerbread house that became the centerpiece of the kitchen table. Apparently it had been a tradition in his family to leave a gingerbread house out for Santa, and then they would devour what he had 'left behind' while opening presents on Christmas morning.

For the most part, Winter steered clear of all this festivity. He watched from the edges of the room as they decorated the house, slowly filled the space under the tree with wrapped presents, and made snowmen every time it snowed. He gave them odd looks when they hummed or whistled Christmas carols, and still slouched away to his room most of the time.

Winter perked up the most when Sam introduced him to hot chocolate for the first time. He poured some into Winter's mug instead of coffee one morning, and Winter emerged from his meal in the bathroom with wide eyes.

“What did you do to the coffee?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Steve started laughing so hard that he choked on his eggs and Sam had to thump him on the back.

“That's not coffee, Winter,” Sam said with a grin as Steve regained control over his breathing. “It's hot chocolate! You like it?”

Winter stared almost reverently into the bottom of his mug and slowly nodded. “It's my favorite.”

Steve grinned, still wiping tears of mirth away. Such a simple thing on the surface, but it was a mark of how far Winter had come that he could even _have_ favorites now.

Finally, Christmas Eve came and went, and they woke the next morning to a sparkling blanket of new snow and an almost painfully blue sky. Sam made pancakes, and Winter (who, to Steve's glee, was wearing his  _Winter Is Here_ pajamas) emerged from the bathroom for seconds and even thirds.

After finishing their leisurely breakfast and cleaning up the surprisingly large mess they'd made in the kitchen, they dispersed to get dressed. It took almost an hour before Winter ventured back downstairs, but Steve refused to even think about what he'd been doing all that time. It was Christmas. He wasn't going to worry about anything today.

Sam wanted to go outside and enjoy the snow, and to Steve's surprise Winter followed them. He stayed on the porch while the others started rolling snowballs, but he didn't go back inside. He looked rather lonely and cold, bundled up at the top of the steps while Steve and Sam tromped through the drifts of snow.

Steve decided Winter probably wouldn't care for a snowball fight, but there were plenty of other things to do. “Ever made a snow angel?” he called lightly up to Winter. He couldn't see Winter's expression under the wool hat and scarf encasing his head, so he stretched out his arms and fell back into an unblemished patch of snow to demonstrate. When he carefully stood back up again, he left the large imprint of an angel behind.

“Why don't you try?” he said to Winter.

Winter hesitated, and Steve expected him to shake his head and resolutely stay on the porch. But he slowly descended the steps and let his feet sink into the snow, as if he were testing the waters before diving in.

Steve smiled invitingly. “Here, there's room next to mine.”

Winter looked doubtful, but he turned so his back was facing the blank canvas of snow, and flopped backwards. He ended up sort of sitting down first before lying flat on his back, and swiped his arms and legs back and forth awkwardly. When he was finished, Steve grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. Winter pushed his hat back a little as he turned carefully around and examined his handiwork. His angel was a little lopsided and lumpy next to Steve's.

“Wanna try again?” Steve asked with a grin.

Though he didn't respond, Winter followed Steve a few paces away to another blank stretch of snow. “See, it works best if you hold your arms out from the beginning,” Steve said. Once Winter got into position, they both fell backwards into the snow at the same time.

Before Steve could even begin to create his angel, terrified screams split the air. He jerked upright and saw Winter writhing around in the snow, screaming as if he'd fallen into a lake of fire instead. He clutched at his head, his eyes staring sightlessly at horrors only he could see.

Steve scrambled over to him as fast as he could, and Sam raced over from where he'd been attempting to sculpt a snow reindeer.

“Winter!” Steve tried to hold him still so he wouldn't hurt himself, but that only made Winter thrash around more wildly than ever. “Winter, it's okay! You're s—“ He had to stop when Winter threw a punch at his jaw.

“Is he hurt?” Sam panted, wrestling with Winter's legs.

But as Winter thrashed around, Steve saw clumps of snow sliding over his loose scarf and slipping under the collar of his shirt. “No, it's the snow,” Steve said, pinning Winter's arms by his sides at last. “Come on, let's get him inside.”

By the time they managed to heave him through the front door, Winter had stopped screaming and fighting them. He let Steve sit him in front of the fire and trade his coat for a warm, dry blanket, shivering as violently as if he'd fallen in a frozen lake. Steve sat with him, rubbing his back as Winter squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in huge, desperate gasps.

It took a long time to get him completely calmed down. He hadn't had a panic attack this bad in a long time, so it seemed even worse by comparison. Why did it have to happen today, of all days? Christmas was supposed to be a day when everyone could relax and enjoy each other's company. Steve had hoped they could all forget for a short time that they were three highly abnormal men in a very uncomfortable, stressful situation. But it seemed their troubles followed them everywhere.

When Winter finally stopped shivering, he slumped wearily in his blanket, damp strands of hair hiding what little of his face was visible. Steve gave him one last pat on the back and glanced over at Sam, who had been quietly preparing lunch. “You want something to eat?”

“I just need to sleep,” Winter said, slowly getting to his feet.

Steve let him wearily trudge up the stairs to his room, his heart sinking with the feeling of helplessness that had grown all too familiar recently. For all of Steve's strength and all of his skills, he couldn't do something as simple as protect his friends from their fears.

“Tuna sandwich?” Sam appeared at his side, offering him a plate with a sandwich and a pile of chips.

Steve smiled half-heartedly. “How festive.”

“Shut up, we can have the roast goose and plum pudding for supper.”

Accepting the plate, Steve followed Sam back to the table. “Are we really having roast goose and plum pudding?”

“Chicken,” Sam replied, already digging in to his own sandwich. “I _did_ find a recipe for plum pudding, though....”

The rest of the day passed slowly. Winter remained in his room, so they put off opening presents until he emerged again. Though the panic attack had put a damper on the day's festivities, Steve did his best to salvage the rest of the day for Sam, at least. He deserved a happy, restful Christmas too. After Steve let slip that he'd never seen  _It's a Wonderful Life_ (which was apparently a classic), Sam insisted that they stop everything and watch it immediately.

Once they'd finished that, they spent the rest of the day preparing their Christmas feast. Steve was pretty sure that some of the dishes they made belonged on a Thanksgiving table, but since they'd forgotten all about Thanksgiving in their concern for Winter, this holiday could do double duty.

Winter showed up as they were setting the table, probably attracted by the many delectable smells filling the cabin. The dark circles under Winter's eyes made Steve wonder if he'd actually slept at all, but Steve forced his worried thoughts aside and smiled instead. “Eat up!” he said, handing Winter a plate. “We've got plenty to go around.”

He wished Winter could have joined them at the table, but of course he slunk off to the bathroom to eat. They tried to draw him into the conversation when he came back for more, but Winter wasn't particularly responsive. He was probably still tired. Still, he ate almost half of the plum pudding by himself, so Steve hoped he was enjoying Christmas at least a little.

Before Winter could get started on the mountain of dishes, Steve led the way over to the Christmas tree and started handing out the presents. Winter seemed confused, not sure what this was all about, but he followed the others' lead and unwrapped his presents. There weren't many, and most of them were things Steve had picked up in town just to fill up the space under the tree. But Sam surprised him with a beautiful set of charcoal pencils and a sketchpad made with paper especially designed for them. Sam gave Winter an enormous box of gourmet cocoa mix, which Winter eyed with an endearing mix of confusion and delight.

Steve saved the best for last. After every other present had been opened, Steve handed Winter his main gift: a little red box with a green ribbon tied around it in a bow. “Merry Christmas, Winter.”

Winter pulled the ribbon off and lifted the lid to find a set of keys inside. He picked them up, looking at them with furrowed brow.

“They're the keys to the motorcycle,” Steve said. “It's yours now! You can ride it wherever you want. And...maybe...when you're ready to leave...it can take you where you need to go.”

He beamed at Winter, proud of himself for coming up with such a perfect gift. He and Sam had been discussing ways to give Winter more independence. Maybe if he felt like he had control over more areas of his life, he wouldn't rely so much on cutting. And the motorcycle would be so useful to him, once he was stable enough that he could strike out on his own and start his own life. It was an easy, versatile vehicle perfect for a man wandering in search of himself. It was also quite stylish; Winter would look right at home on it, what with his mask and everything....

Winter sat staring at the keys in his hand as Steve spoke, but suddenly he got to his feet. He met Steve's eyes deliberately, then threw the keys down at Steve's feet. He turned on his heel and stomped back upstairs without a word.

Steve couldn't speak. He stared at the keys on the floor in front of him, the rejection stinging as sharply as if Winter had slapped him. What had he done wrong? He'd thought it was the perfect gift, the perfect way to show Winter that they cared, that they wanted him to get better and make his own decisions....

“Sam?” he asked desperately, finally looking up from his feet.

But Sam looked just as confused as he felt. “I don't know,” he said, frowning at the stairs. “Something's going on in that head of his that we don't know about.”

Steve sighed and reluctantly picked up the keys from the floor. He'd tried so hard to make this a good Christmas for everyone, but now it had ended on such a sour note, and apparently it was all his fault. He didn't know what more there was to  _do_ that he hadn't done already. What was he missing?

Trying not to mope or rip down all the Christmas decorations in a fit of frustration, Steve tidied up the clutter from opening the presents. When he moved to help Sam clean up the kitchen, however, Sam stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.

“Maybe you should go talk to Winter.” The unspoken addition hung in the air: _Before he does something he'll regret._

Steve chided himself for the reluctance he felt as he climbed the stairs with Winter's gifts in his hands (minus the keys). This was just some kind of misunderstanding. Or maybe Winter was just in a bad mood because of the panic attack earlier. Winter would explain what the problem was, Steve would apologize, and then everything would be right again. As right as it ever was these days.

But Winter had another unpleasant surprise waiting for him. The door to his room was ajar, so Steve nudged it open and stepped inside. The room was dark, so his eyes were immediately drawn to the light spilling out the open door of the bathroom, where Winter sat on the closed lid of the toilet. Blood pooled around the knife he pressed against his wrist, dribbling down onto the white tiles of the floor.

Winter, who was staring into space as if mesmerized by the flow of blood, didn't seem to have noticed him yet, so Steve set the presents down on top of the dresser and stood quietly in the doorway, watching him. Guilt threatened to choke him. What kind of horrible friend was he, that Winter had to resort to something like this just to get by? Were his attempts at holiday cheer really that bad?

Slowly, Winter's head turned in his direction, and his eyes focused on Steve's feet. He glanced up, then quickly looked down again, pulling the knife away. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his arm up against his chest, as if trying to hide even though Steve was looking right at him.

“Can I help you with that?” Steve asked softly.

Winter hesitated, then nodded.

Steve found Winter's stash of bandages and knelt in front of him, trying to think of something to say as he worked to patch Winter up. His eyes strayed to the rest of Winter's arm, counting the scars as he always did when he got a good look at them all. There were so  _many_ of them. It was like a visual scream, a soundless cry for help, and Steve ached to respond to it. Every time he caught a glimpse of Winter's scars, they were deeper and more numerous than before. He couldn't keep this up forever. There would be nothing of him left.

“I really wish you would stop doing this,” he said, wrapping the bandage snugly around Winter's wrist.

“Why?” Winter muttered sullenly, watching the blood slowly drying on the edge of his knife.

Steve clenched his teeth, something twisting inside him at how indifferent Winter sounded. “Because I don't believe for a  _second_ that you want to live like this.”

Winter's right hand curled into a fist. “What I want doesn't matter.”

“How can you say that? Of course it matters.”

But Winter shook his head tightly. “People...want things from me. And they take them. Even if they ask, it's not like I can say no. They'll just take it anyway.”

Steve wondered if Winter knew how much that hurt. “Is that really what you think of us? Of  _me?_ ” No wonder he had to cut himself to cope.

Winter shrugged, pulling his bandaged arm out of Steve's grasp. “Then what would you do if I said I wanted to leave tonight?”

Steve frowned at Winter, trying to understand where he was coming from. Was he saying he'd never wanted to stay? Did he think they wouldn't let him go? Did he still think they had some ulterior motive beyond just wanting to help him? He didn't know what to say, how to convince Winter that his intentions were exactly what he'd said they were all along. He didn't know what to say that would help Winter, and what would only make things worse.

So instead, he simply spoke from his heart. “Well...I would pack up as many supplies as you could carry on the motorcycle and send you on your way. And then I would go after the rest of the Hydra agents who are still out there, and put them all behind bars before they can find you.” He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat at the thought of Winter all alone in the world, and tried to smile. “But...I'll miss you, Winter.”

“Miss me?” Winter looked up with an expression of surprise that nearly broke Steve's heart. He still didn't understand, did he? He didn't realize how much he'd changed Steve's life. Watching Winter slowly heal and gradually leave behind the life Hydra had forced upon him was the most inspiring thing he'd ever seen. It gave him so much hope to be reminded that no amount of evil could completely destroy what was good in this world.

And that was why it hurt so much to watch him struggling like this. It was like watching him give up, as if he'd decided there was no point in fighting that evil anymore. Steve wanted so desperately to help him fight, to vanquish all of his amorphous enemies so he could finally be  _happy._ But Winter didn't want that. He wanted to leave.

“Of course I'll miss you,” Steve said, carefully closing his hand around the bloody blade Winter still held. He would rather Winter attack _him_ than keep hurting himself like this. “So...I won't stop you if that's really what you want, but....” He bowed his head over the knife and clasped both hands around it. “Please don't go?”

A long pause stretched out between them, in which there was no sound but the soft  _plink_ of water dripping in the sink. Then Winter whispered, “Okay.”

Relief rushed through him. “Okay,” Steve echoed, gently pulling on the knife. Winter let it slip from his hand, and Steve set it aside on the edge of the sink. His hands were now smeared with Winter's blood. He got to his feet, looking down at Winter, who sat staring at the floor. “Try to get some sleep,” he said gently. “It's been a long day.”

When Winter made no reply, Steve quietly left him alone with his thoughts. He hoped Winter would really consider what he'd said. He wasn't sure what had set all this off, but he hoped Winter realized that despite whatever mistakes Steve had made, he only wanted Winter to be happy.

After slowly washing his hands, Steve made his way downstairs. Winter's door was closed, and all was silent. Hopefully, Winter would get a good night's sleep and everything would be better in the morning. It was only when Steve stepped into the kitchen and saw that Sam had finished all the dishes that he realized how long he'd been up there with Winter.

Steve dropped onto a stool at the kitchen table with a weary sigh. “He's fine,” he said in answer to Sam's inquiring look. “I think he thought we were trying to get rid of him or something. But it's okay for now, I guess. He went to bed.”

Sam crossed the room with two steaming mugs of coffee. He set one in front of Steve and said, “And what about you? How are  _you_ holding up?”

This act of such simple kindness brought an enormous lump to Steve's throat. “I'm tired,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice broke and tears stung his eyes. He dropped his head into his hands.

A warm hand rested on his back, and Steve fumbled blindly until he pulled Sam into a crushing embrace. “I can't take this anymore,” he sobbed against Sam's comforting warmth. “I've been trying so  _hard..._ but nothing I d-do...ever helps. It's...just getting worse, and ev...everything I say just p-pushes him farther away! I can't do it, Sam, I j-just can't  _do_ it anymore. It  _hurts_ too much....”

“So...what?” Sam asked, rubbing Steve's back in a soothing rhythm. “You're giving up on him?”

He shook his head, but it was a minute or two before he could speak past the tears choking him. He dug his fingers into the fabric of Sam's sweater. “Of course I'm not giving up on him,” he gasped. “How  _could_ I? It's just...nothing I do ever seems to make a  _difference._ He's hardly better off than when we first met him.”

“That's not true and you know it.” Sam rested his cheek against the top of Steve's head—a warm, comforting pressure. “He used to get panic attacks if you so much as looked at him, but he's a lot calmer now. He hardly ever hides in the corner looking like he's about to run. He even lets us _touch_ him now. He's made unbelievable progress.”

“But he still has so far to go.”

“And we'll be with him every step of the way.” Sam didn't let go until Steve straightened up, wiping his eyes. Then he said softly, “Steve...it's not your fault.”

Steve's eyes filled with tears again, and he pressed his hands against them as if he could stem the flood. He tried to swallow a sob, but it silently shook his whole body. “It...It kind of is.”

“No.” Sam gently pried Steve's hands away from his face. His dark eyes, so full of warmth and understanding, bored into his like he knew exactly what Steve was thinking. “Don't you dare start blaming the wrong person now, Steve. Everything Winter's struggling with right now is Hydra's fault. _You_ have done nothing but help him from the first time you laid eyes on him. Now it's up to him to make a change. We can't make that change for him. All we can do is support him along the way.”

He was right, of course. Sam was always right about these kinds of things. Steve took a deep, shuddering breath and accepted the tissue Sam handed him. He felt as though a great weight had been  lifted from his shoulders, a sense of dread he'd been carrying around for too long.

“Thank you,” he said, once the tears had finally stopped. “I...guess I needed that.”

“What you  _need_ is some sleep.” Sam shooed him off his stool and towards the stairs. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”

Steve paused with one foot on the bottom step and smiled back at his friend. “Merry Christmas, Sam.”

Maybe this day wasn't a total loss. It hadn't gone anything like what he'd envisioned, or anything like a normal Christmas, but maybe they'd all managed to find a small sliver of peace in the end.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he started towards his own room, but stopped when he noticed Winter's door was ajar. Hadn't it been closed when he went downstairs? Steve poked his head inside and opened his mouth to ask if Winter needed any help, only to gasp and burst into the room.

Light still spilled out of the open bathroom door, revealing a small but steadily growing puddle of blood oozing across the white tiles. Steve raced into the bathroom and stared, aghast, at the man lying on the floor. Winter had pulled off the bandage he'd just placed there, and now his blood poured onto the floor. His whole arm was covered in it, as was the knife he still clutched in his metal fingers. What little of Winter's face that showed above the mask was deathly pale, almost as white as the floor underneath him. His eyes were closed. He wasn't moving.

“Sam!” Steve screamed, leaping into action. “ _Sam!_ ” He grabbed the hand towel and pressed it to Winter's arm. This was no minor cut. Winter had sliced open a vein, running all the way from the inside of his elbow to his wrist. It looked deep. There was so much _blood._

He took one hand away from the towel pressed against Winter's arm to feel for Winter's pulse on his neck. Steve's hand was shaking so badly it took him a while to find the right place, but finally he felt the beat of Winter's heart. It was weak and erratic, but it was there, and that was all that mattered. His fingers left two bloody smudges just below Winter's mask.

Sam burst into the room, gun in one hand and first aid kit in the other, prepared for anything. He paused only a moment as he assessed the situation, then set the gun down and got to work. Steve followed his instructions as he stitched up the wound and bandaged Winter's arm. Steve began to shake as he realized how close they had come to losing their friend forever.

Nothing he'd said had helped at all. Once again, he'd only made things worse.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 _When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;_  
_and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;_  
_when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,_  
_and the flame shall not consume you._

_\- Isaiah 43:2_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter was hard to write on so many levels x.x While I don't have any first-hand experience with self-harm, I did have two roommates in college who struggled with it. Basically, I found myself in Steve's position, just helplessly trying to figure out how to help a friend whose life was falling apart in front of me. The hardest part, for me, was that I felt like I always had to be the strong one. I had to be a rock for my roommate, someone that she could rely on to help or at least to listen when things got really bad. And I thought I was handling it reasonably well until someone asked me what Sam does: “How are you holding up?” It's hard to be strong when all you want is for someone else to take the burden. Which makes me love Sam more than ever. He supports Steve as much as Steve supports Winter.
> 
> Originally, Steve's present to Winter of the motorcycle was going to come at the end of the fic, and it was going to be a happy, fluffy scene. But of course my angsty brain wasn't satisfied with that for very long :P
> 
> Sorry to leave you with a sort of cliff-hanger for two weeks, but there really wasn't a better place to cut the chapter.


	7. Cross the Distance

_I have loved you from the start_  
_I have seen your hurting heart_  
_And you feel so lonely, but you keep on hiding_  
_'Cause you feel so guilty for what you've done, but_  
  
_There's no distance too far that I can't reach you_  
_There's no place that's so dark that I can't find you_  
_Anywhere that you are, if you need proof_  
_Take a look at these scars, and know I love you_

_..._

_You will never outrun my love..._

_\- “Never Too Far Gone” by Jordan Feliz_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Winter didn't wake up till the next morning. He still looked terribly pale, but his pulse was stronger than it had been, and he didn't have a fever. Slowly, Winter blinked and looked at Steve, who had been sitting at his bedside all night despite Sam's protests that he should get some rest. “Wha...?”

“Hey,” Steve said, leaning forward and smiling wearily. “How are you feeling?”

Winter looked down at himself in dazed confusion, at the quilt pulled up to his chin and his bandaged arm lying on top of it.

“Sorry,” Steve said hastily. “We had to change your clothes. There was blood everywhere....”

He desperately hoped Winter wasn't disappointed that his apparent suicide attempt had failed. Maybe the attempt had been a mistake. Maybe, now that he was awake again, he would decide that he didn't want to die after all.

“Thirsty,” Winter said hoarsely, breaking the silence.

“I'm sure you are,” he said, quickly getting to his feet. “Sam wanted to give you an IV saline solution, but...well, that's not really feasible right now. So you've got to drink lots of fluids and get your strength back up. You should probably stay in bed for a couple days at least, to be on the safe side.” As he spoke, he picked up the old blue bandanna from the bedside table and tied the ends together, making a loop. “So I'm afraid it's back to this again.”

He helped Winter sit up, propped up on his pillows, and handed him the bandanna. “There's water there,” he said, pointing it out on the bedside table. “And something for pain if you need it. I'll get you something to eat.”

It was almost comforting to return to the old routines of Winter's bedridden days. As he sat and helped Winter eat soup one-handed without pushing the bandanna away from his face, he could almost believe no time had passed. How much easier it had been, when it was obvious how to help him!

But there was an extra tension now when silence fell between them, and Steve knew he would have to bring up the elephant in the room. He set the empty bowl down on the bedside table and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I'm...I'm really sorry about...yesterday. I wanted so much for everyone to be happy that...I didn't realize how much you were hurting.”

Winter listened, a furrow between his brows. When Steve finished, he said abruptly, “Why are you still here?”

Steve's heart sank to his toes. “Do you want me to leave?”

Winter shook his head. “But why don't you?”

Steve smiled sadly and took Winter's cold right hand in his own. Would Winter ever understand? “You're my friend. So as long as you need me...as long as you want me...I'm not going anywhere.”

Winter glanced down at their clasped hands, and Steve quickly let go. He hadn't even thought about whether the contact would be uncomfortable to Winter, or even painful.... His gaze fixed on the bandages hiding the horrible, self-inflicted wound. “Was it because of me?” he blurted.

A long pause, in which Steve was too scared to look up, stretched out longer and longer.  _Great,_ he thought.  _It_ was _because of me._ He opened his mouth to apologize again, but Winter finally began to speak.

“You were lying,” he muttered.

Steve looked up in surprise. Winter's brows pinched together sharply as he glowered down at his clenched metal fist. “When?” Steve asked, trying to remember what he'd said the day before. “What do you mean?”

“You acted so _happy,_ like everything was fine,” Winter said. “But everything's _not_ fine. _Nothing's_ fine. And then I realized...you gave me your motorcycle...so you were happy because you wanted me to leave.”

Steve stared at him, stricken. “Oh, Winter...that wasn't what I meant at all.... This is so messed up....” He scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling the exhaustion of his sleepless night crash down on him at last.

“It was Christmas,” he said helplessly. “For as long as I can remember, Christmas has always been...almost magical. I look forward to it all year. When I was a kid, even when we didn't have much, my mother would always try to make it special. My best friend, he'd...he'd always come over to play, so even when I was sick...it was still special. Even in the war, we always managed to celebrate Christmas, even with Nazis breathing down our necks. We'd sit around the fire, passing drinks around and telling stories....” He sighed. “Ever since I woke up in the twenty-first century, it just hasn't been the same. I wanted to have that again. I wanted _you_ to have that.”

Silence fell again. It made so much sense now why Winter was so upset the night before. If only he had known, maybe he wouldn't have done something so  _stupid_ as to give him the motorcycle and talk about him leaving....

“Tell me the truth,” Winter said suddenly. “ _Do_ you want me to leave?”

Steve met his eyes steadily. “No. Do  _you_ want to leave?”

Winter shook his head. Steve smiled, even though Winter dropped his eyes down to his lap and didn't see.

The tension was gone from the silence that enveloped them now. They had resolved at least  _some_ of their problems, though the stark white bandages were a constant reminder that those problems wouldn't just go away by themselves. It was sobering to realize how hard he'd tried to help, only to send Winter a completely opposite message.

“I want to help you,” Steve said quietly. “But I guess I don't know how. What do you need, Winter? What would make it easier?”

Winter's eyebrows rose in surprise, and he didn't say anything for a long time. Finally he said slowly, “I don't know.”

“Well...if you do think of something, you'll tell me, won't you? Anything at all.”

“Yeah,” he said, though he sounded as though he didn't think that was very likely.

He wasn't healed yet...but he was better.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It was amazing how different things were when hardly anything had changed. After a couple of days keeping Winter bedridden, life resumed its normal course. They didn't talk about what had happened on that disastrous Christmas, but the tension Sam had noticed growing between the three of them had eased away. Whatever Steve and Winter had talked about had blown away the fog of wary unease.

Sam was a little nervous when it was finally time to take the stitches out of Winter's arm. It was the first time since Winter was bedridden that they had directly dealt with the consequences of his cutting, and it would probably be uncomfortable for him emotionally as well as physically. And if he lost control...well, it wouldn't be pretty with all the sharp, pointy objects lying around.

Hoping to mitigate some of this, Sam took pains to explain what he was going to do and showed Winter the scissors he would use to cut through the stitches. The more Winter could anticipate, the less he would be startled. Hopefully.

“I've done this before,” Winter muttered, sitting down at the kitchen table as Sam directed and laying his arm down on it. Despite his attempted nonchalance, his shoulders were tense. No doubt his Hydra handlers had stitched up his wounds countless times, but they probably weren't pleasant experiences. He could just imagine them poking and prodding him, stitching him up and pulling the stitches out with perfect efficiency and absolutely no care for how uncomfortable it might be for Winter.

“Try to relax,” Sam said as he dabbed rubbing alcohol over Winter's arm. “They'll come out easier that way.”

Steve hung back, watching but keeping out of the way. He was mostly there in case Winter had a panic attack or started fighting and needed to be held down while they got the job done. Hopefully his presence wouldn't be necessary. But when Sam picked up the scissors to begin, Winter suddenly said in a breathless voice, “Cap...could you...hold...?”

For a moment, Sam wasn't sure what he meant, but it seemed that Steve instantly understood. He pulled up a stool next to Winter's and sat down facing him, then grasped Winter's right hand in both of his, rubbing his thumb soothingly back and forth across Winter's knuckles. The effect was almost instantaneous. Winter's shoulders lowered, the tight muscles in his arm relaxed, and he let out a long, slow breath. He nodded to Sam, and they began.

As he carefully snipped the stitches, Sam reflected that this was the first time he'd heard Winter address Steve by name. Usually, he just said  _you,_ letting the context make it clear who he was talking to. Kind of like he was talking to the air rather than speaking with an actual person like himself.

Sam was pleasantly surprised at how smoothly the procedure went. Winter only twitched a couple times when Sam accidentally poked him with the tweezers, but he just watched every movement intently and waited calmly for Sam to finish. Steve held onto his hand the whole time, pressing it gently between his whenever Winter shifted or drew in a sharp breath.

“There we go,” Sam said at last, clearing away his supplies. “All done.”

Now there was nothing but a thick red line running down Winter's arm to indicate what he'd been through. It was larger than any of his other scars, and Sam wondered if it would ever fade.

When Steve let go of Winter's hand, Winter curled his hand into a fist and opened it again. For a moment he looked like he was going to say something, but then he just tugged his sleeve down over his newly bandaged arm.

It was obvious that Winter was doing better, but he still had a long way to go. Sam had hoped that his brush with death might scare him into an actual attempt to stop cutting, and at first, it seemed like it had. Sam supervised the continued healing of his arm, to make sure the holes left by the stitches didn't get infected, and until the bandage finally came off, he didn't notice any new cuts making their appearance. But barely a day after Sam took off the bandage, he spotted a new one wrapped around Winter's wrist.

As discouraging as it was to watch Winter fall right back into his self-destructive habits, Sam took heart when he noticed the signs that Winter  _was_ improving little by little. Even though he was still cutting himself, there was something much more...open about him now. He didn't seem like he was trying to hide as much anymore. He would roll his sleeves up while washing dishes, and didn't seem to mind that they could see all of his scars, new and old. Once, his private stash of bandages had apparently run out, and Sam overheard him asking Steve for more. Ultimately, that led to Steve patching him up himself.

Sam could practically  _hear_ the silent cry for help. Now, Winter would often leave the door open when he retreated to his room to cut himself, as if hoping one of them would walk by and stop him. Sometimes he would linger in a room they were in, looking as though he wanted to say something. But then he would sigh and leave the room, or just sit there quietly. Sam started to look for those moments, and try to draw him into whatever conversation or activity he and Steve were in the middle of, but he wasn't sure if it was actually helping at all.

One day, while he was helping Winter with the dinner dishes, Sam glanced over and saw the state of Winter's arm. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and of course the eye was immediately drawn to the enormous scar running the length of his forearm. But a second glance revealed another slash off to the side, much more recent. The cut had closed, but the skin around it was red and inflamed.

Without saying anything, Sam hung up the dish towel and went to get an ice pack from the freezer. As Winter let the dishwater drain away, Sam set the ice pack on the counter in front of him, as well as a bottle of ibuprofen.

“For the infection,” he said in reply to Winter's inquiring look. “The ice will help bring the swelling down.”

Winter ducked his head as if embarrassed, but he grabbed the ice pack and held it against his arm.

Sam decided to press his luck. If he could just get Winter to start talking about this, maybe they could finally get somewhere. “Can you tell me what makes you want to go for the knife?” he asked gently. “Maybe next time you feel like that, we can do something different so it won't be so hard.”

Winter shifted the ice pack on his arm. “I don't know.”

But Sam wasn't going to let it go that easily. “Well, what about this time? What did you feel like right before?”

Winter fell silent, looking down at the floor. Sam watched him carefully, trying to read his body language. His shoulders weren't tense and hunched over, and he wasn't fidgeting or looking around furtively for a way to escape. It seemed he was actually thinking about what Sam had said.

At last he began to speak. “I was...in my room. You were out running. Cap went to get groceries. I was just looking out my window at the mountains...when I thought about the last time I saw mountains. On a...mission....” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head sharply, as if trying to shake something loose. Then he blinked and looked down at the ice pack, which was leaking everywhere, crushed to bits in his metal hand. He quickly dropped it into the sink.

“Next time you feel like that,” Sam said carefully, “could you come tell me? Maybe a distraction would help, something to keep you busy. We could go running or something. How does that sound?”

Winter hesitated, glanced up at Sam, then quickly looked back at the floor. “Just...don't tell Cap?”

Sam wondered what lurked behind that request. Steve would be a much-appreciated help in this endeavor, able to take over when Sam wasn't around. He'd thought the tension between Steve and Winter had been resolved, but maybe Winter was still holding onto some bitterness. Or maybe he was ashamed. But even though he knew Steve could probably help better than anyone, Sam had to respect Winter's request. He must have a reason for asking.

“All right,” he said slowly. “If that's what you want...then I promise.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve had to keep reminding himself of how bad things had gotten before, because otherwise he tended to forget that the current state of affairs was an improvement. Winter was still cutting himself, but it seemed less frequent than before, less...desperate. He hardly ever asked Steve to so much as pass the salt, let alone ask for help in quitting his dangerous habit. But the anger and bitterness were gone when they spoke. Their sparse conversations were still awkward, but...this had to mean their relationship wasn't  _completely_ broken, right?

Once he pinpointed what was bothering him, Steve felt incredibly selfish. He noticed that Winter had begun spending a lot more time with Sam. They started to go running together, sometimes several times a day, as if they were training for a marathon or something. Sometimes he noticed them conversing quietly like they didn't want him to hear, and Sam always seemed to be the one helping Winter with his cuts now. Winter had decided to ask Sam for help, or maybe Sam just somehow knew when Winter needed it, and Steve didn't.

Steve wished he could talk to Sam about this; Sam was such a good listener, and he'd grown accustomed to sharing all of his thoughts and concerns with him. But what would he say?  _I'm jealous of you because you're helping Winter and I'm not._ It didn't get much stupider than that.

If all he truly cared about was Winter's well-being, shouldn't he just be happy that Winter was improving, regardless of who was responsible for it? What kind of conceited jerk was he, that he needed to be the most important person in Winter's life? It was  _good_ that Winter was bonding with Sam. Sam was kind, open, and dependable. He was exactly the kind of person to lead Winter out of the pit and give him his life back.

Steve felt horrible even admitting it to himself, but  _he_ wanted to do the leading. What did that say about him? In the weeks following Christmas, Steve tried to take a step back and not intrude where he wasn't needed or wanted. Sam always did it so easily, letting Steve take the lead and guide their course. So why did Steve find it so hard? He'd watch his friends step inside, breathless and rosy-cheeked from their run, and instead of being glad they'd had a good time, he just felt...left out.

But maybe this was for the best. Just look what had happened the last time he'd tried to help—he had completely misread the situation, given Winter a message exactly opposite of what he was trying to say, and nearly killed Winter as a result. If Winter didn't want him anywhere near, Steve could hardly blame him. Winter didn't seem angry with him anymore, but he must have realized that Steve couldn't help him. That was why he turned to Sam now. When it came to Winter, Steve was completely useless.

Was this how it would end? Steve had tried so hard to save Winter, to make amends as much as he could for indirectly being responsible for all the evil Winter had suffered. He had convinced Winter to start over, helped him through withdrawal, got him acclimated to a normal life and proved that no one was going to hurt him...and that was it. Would he never be able to help him any further? Could he only lead Winter so far along the path to healing?

He wanted to take Winter all the way to the end. And somehow, it wasn't enough to just sit back and watch it happen.

Days passed on into weeks, and Steve tried hard not to let on how lonely he was beginning to feel. It was stupid to feel lonely when the two best friends he had in the world were  _right there._ He just needed to stop feeling sorry for himself, and do what little he could. That would have to be enough.

One morning, Steve walked down to the kitchen and discovered the others bundling up in preparation for a run. They never seemed to choose a consistent time for their excursions, but apparently just decided based on a whim—sometimes at the oddest times. But they were never gone for long, usually no more than half an hour. Steve continued towards the kitchen, suppressing a sigh. Maybe he'd make some hot chocolate and pancakes and have it ready for them when they returned....

Sam and Winter were conversing quietly, and Steve tried to clatter around in the kitchen so they wouldn't think he was eavesdropping. But then Sam said in a louder voice, “Hey, Cap, we're heading out for a run. Wanna join us?”

Steve looked up in surprise. Sam was pulling on a hat, and Winter was fiddling with the glove that hid his metal hand from sight. He glanced up and met Steve's gaze. Steve couldn't tell what expression he was wearing, but he didn't  _look_ like he minded.

“Okay,” Steve said, his heart lifting hopefully.

Five minutes later, they were jogging up the curving path to the road. There was just enough room for the three of them to run side-by-side on the right shoulder of the road, and they soon fell into an easy rhythm. Steve found himself in the middle, with Sam on his right and Winter on his left.

He'd missed this—this sense of simple  _purpose._ While he was running, he didn't have to worry about what he was doing wrong, or whether Winter would ever truly heal. For now, he only had to focus on the moment. Just putting one foot in front of the other, breathing deeply, keeping pace with the others.

It was a beautiful morning to be out running. The crisp January air was cold and still, and the sun was still rising over the snow-crusted peaks. It hadn't snowed in a while, so the ground was dry and hard, white with frost that crackled underfoot. The road was never very busy, but this early on a cold Saturday morning, it was completely deserted. No birds chirped, no voice of man or beast broke the silence. The only sounds were the pounding of their feet against the ground, and their breath puffing in and out, creating little clouds of steam before them.

After a while, Steve noticed that Sam was breathing harder than before, and he remembered that most people wouldn't find this speed the easy jog it was to him. He glanced over to see how Winter was doing, but Winter was possibly the only other person in the world who found this speed as easy as he did. He kept pace effortlessly, barely breaking a sweat.

Winter glanced over at him in the same moment, and a silent message seemed to dart between them.

Steve grinned and took off running as fast as he could. Winter fell behind slightly at first, but soon they were running shoulder to shoulder again. Sam, of course, was left in their dust immediately.

Freezing air stabbed through his lungs with every breath. His heart beat a crazy rhythm, keeping time with his feet pounding against the ground. All he could hear was the wind howling against his ears and Winter's heavy breathing beside him. The road tilted downhill, and they ran even faster.

He had never run with someone like this, pushing himself to his utmost extent but running next to someone who could match every step. Before, he'd always been too weak or too strong; he'd never met someone who was his equal. He hadn't even been able to do this with Bucky.

The road turned a bend and climbed uphill again, and Steve's legs began to burn. He could run for a long time—hours, probably—but he wasn't used to sprinting at top speed for long periods of time. It usually wasn't necessary. At last, when he saw a little picnic area just off the side of the road overlooking the valley below, he admitted defeat. Stumbling to a stop near a picnic table, he collapsed on top of the dead grass and rolled onto his back.

Winter followed suit, dropping onto his back next to Steve. They looked at each other, and Steve grinned, exhilaration exploding in his chest. He looked back up at the sky, which was turning a beautiful shade of robin's-egg blue above them. They lay in silence for several minutes, gasping for breath, not attempting to speak. There was no need for words, not when everything was so unspeakably beautiful. Winter was at his side, and winter was all around him, and he had never tasted air so sweet and fresh.

Eventually, their breathing evened out and the cold breeze on his sweaty skin was making him shiver, so Steve reluctantly got up. His muscles ached in protest at the movement, as they rarely did anymore. It was invigorating to wear himself out so completely. It made him feel human. It made him feel alive.

Steve held out his hand to help Winter up. Winter looked at it for a second, as if not sure what it was for, then grasped it and let Steve pull him to his feet. He held onto Steve's hand a moment more than was perhaps necessary, then let it drop. Steve grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “I think we'll  _walk_ back, what do you say?”

Winter nodded, and they started walking back the way they'd come. They walked in silence, enjoying the view and the birds now making a racket in the trees to either side. After a few minutes, Steve noticed that Winter was shivering in the cold breeze. He hesitated, wondering if his intrusion would be welcome...but what was the worst that could happen? He put his arm around Winter's shoulders and pulled him close as they walked.

Winter started at his first touch, but then relaxed and fell into step with him. His right shoulder, trapped against Steve's side, soon stopped shuddering with the cold.

It would have been a long walk all the way back home, but they hadn't been walking for too long before they saw a familiar SUV driving towards them.

When Sam pulled up alongside them, he rolled down the window and said, “You know, I oughta just let you guys walk the whole way after leaving me behind like that.”

“It's not our fault you're a slowpoke.”

Steve and Sam stared at Winter, who looked just as surprised as them at the words that had popped out of his mouth.

Steve let out a surprised laugh, followed by Sam. It wasn't even that funny, but Steve couldn't seem to stop laughing. Winter looked between the two of them with a confused expression, and that made them laugh harder than ever. All the tension and worry that had been weighing on Steve's shoulders since he'd discovered Winter's cutting problem seemed to fall away. He felt as light as a feather.

When their laughter finally died down, Sam chuckled, “Come on, let's go home. It's getting cold.”

As they rode back to the cabin, Steve reflected on how much things had changed since the last time all three of them had been in the car together. Winter still sat quietly in the back seat, but he wasn't nervously gripping the seatbelt or watching their every move with wary curiosity. He just gazed out the window and watched the scenery slip by.

Sam had apparently been thinking along the same lines as Steve and had pancake batter stirred up and waiting to be cooked when they got back home. Before they could sit down, Sam shooed them both upstairs to get showers.

Steve was in his room getting a change of clothes, whistling cheerfully to himself, when he heard Winter step into the room. He looked up and froze in surprise when he saw that Winter's arms were full of what looked like every knife he owned. He dumped them unceremoniously on top of Steve's bed and took a step back.

“I might want to use these later,” Winter said softly. “Don't let me.” Then he turned and left without a backward glance.

Steve was distantly aware that his mouth had dropped open, but he couldn't close it. He stared at the space Winter had vacated, then gaped at the mountain of deadly weapons on his bedspread.

The long fight was over. Winter wanted to quit.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_Fear not, for I am with you_

 

_..._

 

_I will strengthen you, I will help you,  
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand._

_\- Isaiah 41:10_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my research, Steve's top sprinting speed is probably around 60 mph (96.5 kph). Yeah. To put that in perspective, that's about twice as fast as your average galloping horse. Or almost as fast as a cheetah. Makes you wonder how the Guinness World Records works in the MCU, huh? Do enhanced individuals qualify? XD
> 
> Well, here we go! This is something of a turning point for Winter. Things are looking up :)


	8. Turning a New Leaf

_When you see broken beyond repair_  
_I see healing beyond belief_  
_When you see too far gone_  
_I see one step away from home_  
  
_When you see nothing but damaged goods_  
_I see something good in the making_  
_I'm not finished yet_  
_When you see wounded, I see mended_

_..._

_You see the scars from when you fell_  
_But I see the stories they will tell_

_\- “Mended” by Matthew West_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve wasn't exactly sure why, but after the day they all went running together, everything began to change. Something seemed to have altered the way Winter looked at the whole situation, because now he improved by leaps and bounds. Every day was better than the day before. Every morning, Steve would look at Winter and see more of the man he could be. Even just watching these changes happen healed something in Steve's heart he hadn't known was broken. It reminded him that even the darkest night would dissipate in the light of the morning sun.

The first noticeable change they saw in him was that he started joining them at the table for meals. The same morning he gave all of his knives to Steve, he carried his plate off to the bathroom to eat in private as usual. But when he came back for seconds, he was wearing the bandanna. He sat down quietly at the opposite end of the table from the others, glaring at them as if daring them to ask what he was doing. But Steve just smiled and slid the butter down the table towards him.

Feeding Winter had always been an arduous task when Winter had been bedridden, since they'd had to move slowly and with painstaking care so the bandanna covered his face at all times. It had to be uncomfortable for Winter, to hold his bandanna in place with one hand, eat with the other, and keep his attention on Steve and Sam to make sure they couldn't see his face from any angle. It was certainly harder than simply locking himself in the bathroom where no one could see. But still, Winter joined them for every meal. Even though he usually focused more on eating than on making conversation, he seemed to enjoy the company.

There were fewer crises. Less tension. It felt like they could all take a deep breath for the first time since they'd begun this adventure.

But that didn't mean they didn't run into any setbacks. The day after Winter gave Steve all of his knives, Steve was folding laundry when he looked up and found Winter standing in the doorway of the laundry room.

“Hey,” Steve said cheerfully. “What's up?”

Winter stood staring at the floor, his long hair falling over his face and nearly obscuring his eyes. Several times, he drew in a breath as if he were about to speak, but no sound came out. His fists were clenched at his sides, his shoulders tight and raised almost up to his ears, like he was trying to hide.

Steve, recognizing the signs that Winter was finding it difficult to talk about something, folded the last shirt and waited patiently for him. Winter had spent so long in forced silence, unable to express any of his thoughts or desires, that sometimes the freedom to do so seemed to be overwhelming. Sometimes he would haltingly try to say something, but would stop in frustration when they didn't understand what he meant. Once, he had spent half an hour trying to express a feeling that he could only explain with a long Japanese word. Steve hoped this wasn't one of those times.

Finally, Winter seemed to give up on speech and lifted his metal fist. He dropped the smallest of his knives on top of Steve's pile of laundry, then yanked his right sleeve up. There was a new bandage on his wrist. Winter let both arms drop back to his sides, looking utterly defeated.

Steve wasn't surprised—not really. He hadn't expected Winter to give up such an ingrained habit effortlessly. He'd just assumed Winter would have to resort to more creative ways of hurting himself once he'd relinquished his weapons of choice.

Trying to keep his voice light and nonjudgmental, Steve said, “I guess I need to find a better hiding place, huh?” He'd put Winter's knives in his sock drawer, assuming that Winter would never think to look there. Apparently he'd been wrong.

Winter still remained quiet, tugging his sleeve down and staring at his own feet. It had to be incredibly frustrating to start off with such good intentions, only to slip back into his old habits on the first day. “I'm sorry, Winter,” he said gently. “This must be very discouraging for you. But don't be too hard on yourself. This is just the first day. All we have to do is start over again.”

After a moment of silence, Winter raised his head slightly, though he still didn't look at Steve. “Then...you're not...upset?”

The wavering, hesitant voice stabbed Steve's heart like the knife lying on the stack of laundry. Before he could think better of it, he stepped forward and pulled Winter into a hug. Halfway through the motion, he realized he had never hugged Winter before, and didn't know if the gesture would even be welcome. But it was too late to worry about that now. “I'm sad that you're hurting,” he said, holding Winter close but in a loose embrace in case he wanted to pull away. “But I'm not angry.”

Winter stood stiffly in Steve's embrace, and when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “Disappointed?”

“Never.” He held Winter tighter, and slowly Winter began to relax in his arms. “This isn't a failure. It's just a step back. It's a chance to try again, to learn from our mistakes and move on. And Winter...this still means you went a _whole_ _day_ without cutting yourself. I'm so proud of you.”

A tiny sound—almost a whimper—escaped Winter's throat as he gingerly rested his head against Steve's shoulder, as if afraid Steve would recoil from his touch. Instead, Steve raised one hand and laid it on the back of Winter's head, holding him in place.

Had anyone ever told Winter they were proud of him? Hydra probably hadn't, though he wasn't sure how much that would be desired anyway. But he and Sam hadn't even told him that, had they? They had encouraged him and expressed delight when he'd made progress, but they'd never actually said they were  _proud_ of him. Even if it wasn't what they'd intended, maybe that made it seem like they were condescending to him. Like he was just a poor man they took pity on, rather than their equal. Or even someone to respect and look up to.

“There's no shame in needing help,” Steve said, absently combing his fingers through Winter's hair. “Every time we stumble or fall is just an opportunity for our friends to pick us up again. And every time we get back on our feet, we're a little stronger because of them.” He rested his cheek against the top of Winter's head. “All you have to do is try. That's all anyone can ask for.”

Winter's hands clutched at the back of Steve's shirt as though holding on for dear life. “Please...” he muttered breathlessly. “Help me....”

“I will,” Steve whispered. “I promise.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Breaking Winter's addiction was a war that dragged on and on, one that at times seemed like it would never end. But with every battle they won, they pushed Winter's dark foe back farther, giving Winter steadier ground to keep his feet. Eventually, Winter would be the conqueror. One day, the enemy's attacks would be so feeble he wouldn't even notice them anymore.

Sometimes, Steve had to just sit back and marvel at how much Winter had changed. Even though he had so far to go, he was miles away from the skittish, suspicious man they had first taken in. Anyone who had seen that man would never be able to believe the same person would fall asleep in his chair by the fire, with his back turned to the rest of the room, and not even wake up when Steve draped a blanket over him.

But then there were times it was impossible to forget that Winter was very, very far from ordinary. One day, Steve was taking advantage of his recent discovery that Sam was  _very_ ticklish on the back of his neck, and pestered Sam every chance he got. The fifth time he casually walked behind Sam and slid his fingernails lightly across the back of Sam's neck, Sam leapt to his feet with a glare. “I'm gonna  _kill_ you!”

WHAM. CRASH.

Steve blinked. Sam was on the floor, lying on his back between the two halves of the coffee table, gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him. Winter stood in front of him, his metal fist still thrust out in front of him.

“Wh-What was _that_ for?” Steve spluttered, too shocked to even help Sam up.

The look of fierce concentration on Winter's face melted into one of uncertainty. He quickly lowered his arm. “But...he said he was going to kill you!”

Steve couldn't decide if he was amused by the misunderstanding, worried about the way Sam coughed weakly among the splinters of the table, or touched by the way Winter had immediately leapt to his defense. “Oh...” he said, lips twitching as he tried to keep from laughing hysterically at the whole situation. “No, Winter, you see...that was a _joke._ ”

“Oh.” Winter looked down at Sam and said in a small voice, “Sorry.”

“Just...shut up...and help me,” Sam gasped, raising a hand.

Winter quickly hauled him to his feet, and Sam hung onto his shoulder as he tried to breathe without coughing. “I...I was trying to hold back,” Winter said hastily, as if to make up for what he'd done.

“H-How...was that... _holding back?_ ” Sam demanded, gingerly prodding his chest and wincing.

Winter's eyes widened in surprise. “Well...I didn't break your ribs.”

Steve lost the battle and burst out laughing. Winter and Sam both glared at him, which only made him laugh harder than ever.

It seemed like every day woke a little more of Winter's personality. When he'd first arrived, he hadn't seemed to  _have_ much of a personality behind the thick shell of fear and suspicion. But now they could really find out who he was. And the more Steve saw of his friend, the more he liked him.

Occasionally, Winter would inexplicably remind him of someone he knew—most often, Bucky. It didn't make much sense, he knew. Winter and Bucky couldn't be more different. But sometimes a turn of phrase Winter would use, or the way he moved, would suddenly make him think of Bucky with a pang. He supposed it was mostly because he wished Bucky could be here. That was the only thing he regretted about this life—that his old best friend couldn't meet his new ones.

But of course, those moments were overshadowed by the times no one could mistake him as anyone other than Winter. Steve hated that most of those moments were the times he came to them for help, as though that meant Winter was nothing more than the sum of all his problems and all the times he wasn't strong enough on his own.

One day, when Winter was trying to break his record of four days without hurting himself, he stepped up behind Steve and said quietly, “I need a distraction.”

Over the past few weeks, Steve had learned this was Winter's way of saying,  _Help me keep from cutting myself._ It didn't seem to matter where Steve hid the knives; Winter always seemed to find them in the end. And if he was really desperate, he would find some other way.

Steve stood up immediately. “You want to go running?” Sam had taken him that morning, but sometimes he had to go several times a day to keep himself in check.

“Actually....” Winter shuffled his feet, staring at the floor as if fascinated by the whorls in the wooden planks. “I was...wondering if...if we could...ride the motorcycle.”

Steve stared at him, sure he had heard wrong. “You...want to?” Even after that huge misunderstanding? Even though his gift had seemed like a rejection?

Winter looked up and nodded. That was the true Winter showing through, the one who tried so hard to move past the dark shadows around him. The one who wouldn't let something like a motorcycle stand between them.

Steve wasn't sure if Winter was apologizing or forgiving him, but he'd take either one. With a smile, Steve headed for the door. “Then let's go.”

The last time they'd ridden the motorcycle together had been one of the first days they'd known each other, the day they'd arranged to run away. Back then, Winter had leaned carefully away from Steve, as if afraid the slightest of touches would hurt. Proof of how far Winter had come could be seen in the way Winter loosely circled Steve's waist with his arms, settling comfortably into place behind him.

As they drove along winding mountain roads, with the wind in their faces and the rumble of the engine vibrating through them, Steve felt Winter relax more and more. The sun dipped lower in the sky as they drove, and Winter leaned up against Steve's back, the edge of the mask pressing just under his shoulder blade. Unbidden, a memory of Bucky rose to the front of his mind.

_A frosty morning, as they were preparing their assault on yet another Hydra base. He was making sure everything was ready, attaching his shield to the front of his motorcycle where it would deflect most attacks from the front. Bucky sat down behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and leaning against him. The warmth against his back was welcome in the morning chill, and he felt secure in the knowledge that someone was there to watch his back._

_Still, he felt obligated to point out, “You have a ride of your own. You don't have to come with me.”_

_Bucky snuggled up closer, hooking his thumbs in Steve's belt as if to say he wasn't moving. “Yeah, but this way I might get a few extra minutes of shuteye.”_

_Steve revved the engine loudly and unnecessarily, just to annoy him._

The engine roared as they rounded the bends of the mountain, turning back towards home. Even if it wasn't Bucky, it felt  _right_ to have Winter riding behind him. Maybe that's what he'd been missing when he tried to give this motorcycle to Winter. Wherever Winter decided to go, Steve wanted to be there with him.

Finally, they pulled back into the yard in front of the cabin. Steve kicked the stand down and switched off the engine, and was about to ask what Winter wanted for supper when he realized he hadn't moved since they'd stopped.

Even when he craned his neck around, Steve couldn't see more than the top of Winter's head. Had he somehow fallen asleep back there? It was amazing he hadn't fallen off....

But then, Winter straightened up with a start and quickly got off the motorcycle. Steve glanced up at him, but couldn't read what little of his expression he could see. “I liked that,” Steve said, getting to his feet. “We should do it again sometime.”

He turned away, not really expecting a response, but Winter said softly behind him, “I...I liked it too.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

He was screaming. Metal plates clamped around both sides of his face, hiding everything but one eye flung wide open with terror and agony. The screams only stopped when he drew breath, and each scream was louder than the one before.

“Winter!” Steve cried, trying to rush forward and help the screaming man seated in front of him. But thick leather straps held his arms in place over his head, and try as he might, he couldn't break free. What was wrong? He had bent steel bars before. These flimsy shackles should give him no trouble at all.

But then he realized that his arms were as skinny as saplings, his muscles barely bulging at all even though he strained with all his might. He glanced down at himself and saw that the rest of his body was the same: Skinny. Weak. Helpless.

Indistinct figures surrounded them, laughing at their plight. Someone turned a dial on a switchboard, and Winter began to twitch and tremble, screaming as electricity danced across his temples.

“No, don't hurt him!” Steve screamed, still pulling against his bonds with all his might even though he knew it would do no good. “Please stop! _Please!_ ”

“Please stop,” the shadowy figures echoed mockingly, drawing closer. They loomed above him, tall as mountains, grinning down in obscene pleasure at his distress. “Please, please, pretty please....”

“Winter!” Steve screamed. Beyond the encroaching shadows, he could still see Winter suspended in torment. The shadows reached out towards Winter, long black tentacles slithering up his legs and twining about his arms. They wrapped around his neck and oozed over his mask and into his open mouth, making him gag and choke on his own screams.

“ _No!_ ” Steve's arms were aching, but still he strained. The shadows closed in around him, blocking his view of Winter. “Don't touch him!”

The shadows coalesced into the single figure of a man standing over him, holding a knife. Steve instinctively raised his right arm to block the knife and realized that, miraculously, his bonds had disappeared. He was flat on his back, but his strength had returned in a moment.

Steve kicked the man in the knees, making him stumble backwards, then rolled over and used his momentum to push his attacker onto the floor. A fist collided with his cheek, hurting more than it probably should, but Steve just winced and focused on pinning the hand with the knife flat on the floor.

The man made a sudden twisting motion with his whole body, and suddenly Steve was on his back on the floor with a cold metal bar pressing against his throat. Struggling to breathe, he jabbed his thumb into the pressure point on the man's arm until he dropped the knife. But before Steve could do anything else, the man ripped his hand free and punched him in the side of the head.

Even as his fist moved upwards to hit his attacker on the jaw, everything clicked into place in Steve's mind. He was in his bedroom, not some secret underground Hydra base. That had been a dream. The reason these attacks hurt so much was that this man's strength matched Steve's own. The metal against his neck was an arm. And his knuckles collided, not with bare skin, but with the hard, smooth material of a mask.

Both of them gasped at the same time, and the mask clattered to the floor. Steve couldn't make out any of Winter's features in the gloom, but Winter immediately whirled away, stumbling off of Steve and scrambling into a corner, both hands covering his face.

“Oh no—I'm sorry!” Steve held out a hand, wanting to help but knowing he was only making things worse every second. “Don't worry, I didn't see....”

The door banged open and light blazed in from the hallway. Steve shielded his eyes from the sudden glare and saw Sam standing in the doorway, gun at the ready. When he saw it was only them, he slumped against the doorpost. “Three o'clock in the morning, guys,” he groaned. “The  _hell_ are you doing?”

“Sorry,” Steve said again, glancing between Sam and Winter. “He...startled me and...sorry.” He spotted the mask lying on the floor and picked it up, then crawled closer to Winter and gingerly placed it on the floor next to him. Winter huddled with his face hidden behind his knees and both hands. His posture of frozen terror was a stronger rebuke than any words could have been.

“Sorry,” Steve repeated, backing up with his eyes on the floor, just in case. “I didn't see anything, I swear....”

Sam interrupted him with a loud yawn. “I'm going back to bed,” he grumbled. “Let me know if you two decide to kill each other again....” He drifted off, closing the door behind himself and plunging them into darkness again.

Steve got to his feet and crossed the room to stand by the window, though the curtains were closed and he couldn't see anything. “I'm so sorry, Winter,” he said, guilt pooling in his gut as he thought over what had just happened. “I was dreaming, and I was just...so startled to see you, I didn't stop to think....”

He ran a hand through his hair, heart still pounding in the wake of that terrible nightmare and the ensuing scuffle. Just when their relationship had been doing so well! He'd probably punched his way back to square one—he'd hurt Winter, and now Winter wouldn't trust him. He might never feel safe around Steve again, not after this. He probably thought Steve had  _intended_ to take the mask off, so he could see whatever it was that Winter wanted so desperately to hide. And because of that, Winter would probably  _never_ feel comfortable enough around him to take it off.

The lamp in the corner clicked on, which Steve took as a sign that it was safe to turn around. Winter's mask was back in place, and other than his disheveled hair, he looked none the worse for their little tussle. He bent down and picked up the knife he'd dropped.

Suddenly, Steve wondered what Winter had been doing here in the first place. Had he come to steal back one of his knives? Was this how he kept doing it—sneaking into Steve's room in the middle of the night and then creeping away to cut himself when they couldn't help him?

Winter just stood staring at the knife in his hands. Who knew what thoughts were running through his head? Steve took a step towards him, wanting to take the knife away, wanting to comfort him...but he stopped. Winter probably didn't want him anywhere near right now.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Winter said softly. “You...said my name.”

Rubbing both hands over his face, Steve sank onto the edge of the bed. “I dreamed that Hydra found you again. They were...hurting you. Torturing you. I wanted to stop them, but...I realized that I was small and weak again. The way I was before the serum. I couldn't fight them, I couldn't protect you.... There was nothing I could do but watch.” He choked out a bitter laugh. “It's like a metaphor for my waking life.”

Silence settled between them, a confirmation of everything Steve had been trying not to admit to himself. Winter didn't have to agree with him. Steve's uselessness was obvious to all.

“You never hurt me,” Winter suddenly said.

Steve frowned and looked up. “What? I just punched you in the face!”

Winter shook his head, staring intently at the knife in his hands. “Everything you've ever done was to help me. From the beginning, you did everything you could to make life better for me. You've had plenty of chances to be cruel, but...you make me feel safe. Even when I didn't—couldn't—understand or accept that's what you were trying to do. You could have abandoned me anytime. Maybe you should have.”

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but then Winter looked up and met his gaze. “But you didn't. You're still here. You're still trying to help. Even if sometimes it seems hopeless.”

“Haven't been a whole lot of help lately,” Steve muttered, glancing at the marks his fingers had made on Winter's arm. The arm that Winter kept mutilating no matter what he did. He couldn't even successfully hide the knives from Winter, when he'd come to him begging for help.

Winter approached him, holding out the knife to him in his open palm. “I came to give this back. I don't need it anymore.”

Steve stared at him. Surely, he just meant that he was done with it for now. He'd cut himself already tonight, and he wouldn't need it for a while.... But there were no bandages on his arm. Nothing but cuts and scars in various stages of healing, none of them newer than the last one Steve had helped him clean up two weeks ago. Slowly, Steve reached out and wrapped his fingers around the knife handle.

Letting go, Winter rolled his shoulders as if shrugging off a heavy weight, then gave the knife a satisfied little nod and turned to leave. He paused with his hand on the doorknob and said without turning around, “You couldn't have prevented it...but you stopped it. Thank you.”

Just as Winter opened the door, Steve managed to swallow the huge lump in his throat and gasp, “Wait!” His voice was harsher than he'd intended. “Don't just walk away from me after saying something like that!”

Winter turned around again, looking wary and confused. Dropping the knife on the bed, Steve stood up and said more softly, “Come here and give me a hug.”

For a moment, Winter looked like he didn't even understand the words he'd said. But then he hesitantly approached Steve and raised his arms. His metal arm flopped over Steve's shoulder like he'd gone for a chokehold but given up halfway. His other arm became awkwardly sandwiched between their chests as he leaned in. “Like this?”

Steve smiled and held him tightly. “Close enough.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 _Keep your voice from weeping, and your eyes from tears;_  
_for there is a reward for your work...._  
_There is hope for your future._

_\- Jeremiah 31:16-17_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The talented and inspiring NewMoonFlicker drew an amazing piece of fanart for me, I think while we were still plotting the whole story out, depicting that last hug at the end there. And it was just so beautiful and perfect that I had to craft a scene to fit it perfectly XD None of the hugging scenes I'd already thought up really fit the tone or the position, so I came up with this whole scene just so I could make it work. And though I don't think either NewMoonFlicker or I originally thought anything beyond “This is a cool moment that must be included!”, it may be the moment the entire story pivots on. See if you agree as the story continues!


	9. Echoes of the Past

_Whoever said this pain would ever go away_  
_Didn't know what it meant to be here without you_  
_Is everything you see reminding you of me?_  
_And does it hurt when you breathe too?_  
_'Cause it does when I do, 'cause it does when I do_

_When anybody says your name I wanna run away_  
_I keep remembering I can't forget you_  
_It doesn't matter, when I try it happens anyway_  
_It's been forever and I can't forget you_

_\- “Can't Forget You” by My Darkest Days_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam Wilson had been fascinated with Steve Rogers his whole life. Like many other boys his age, he'd played Howling Commandos with the neighborhood kids, pretending to fight Nazis with plastic guns and cardboard shields, and he'd read issue after fanciful issue of the comic books recounting Captain America's adventures during World War II.

In kindergarten, when the class was supposed to draw pictures of what they wanted to be when they grew up, most children drew pictures of doctors or firemen or ballerinas. One girl wanted to be a paleontologist (though she pronounced it 'palologist') and discover dinosaur bones, and one boy wanted to drive a garbage truck because he said he wouldn't have to take baths anymore. But when five-year-old Sam Wilson got up and proudly showed his picture to the class, he said brightly, “When I grow up, I'm gonna be Captain America!”

He was sent home with a note that day because he got into a fight with another boy on the playground, who had told him he couldn't be Captain America because Captain America was white. His mother sat him down and talked with him that evening, and though Sam soon forgot her exact words, the ideas stayed with him his whole life.

“You can be anything you want to be, Sammy,” she had said. “Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. But that doesn't mean you can hit someone just because they hurt your feelings. When Captain America fights, he does it so he can protect himself, and so he can protect other people. And he never fights unless there's no other way. Don't you want to be like that, Sammy?”

It didn't stop Sam from getting into fistfights on the playground, but from that day on, he only fought to stop bullies.

Even after he'd reached an age where most of his peers had 'grown out' of superheroes and he'd realized he probably wasn't going to get some kind of serum that would give him special powers, Sam never lost interest in Steve Rogers. They learned about him in history class, and Sam wrote several research papers on him and the Howling Commandos. He always looked forward to the documentaries about his life they would show around the Fourth of July.

There were many factors that led to Sam joining the Air Force, but he had to admit that Steve Rogers had been a major inspiration for that decision. Some part of him was still that little boy who just wanted to save people like the hero of his comic books.

Years of fighting and surviving the harsh Middle Eastern terrain did nothing to dull that desire, but...things happened. He changed. Some people died, and there was nothing he could do to help. He wasn't some amazing comic book hero who always managed to save the day. Sometimes no matter how hard he tried to protect someone, they still died. So eventually he came back home and devoted his days to people he  _could_ save. People who had been hurt and broken like him, who deserved to be healed and set free just as much as the people he had rescued overseas.

Then word got out that Steve Rogers' body had been found. That it wasn't a body, but he was actually somehow  _alive_ after all these years. Then aliens attacked New York, and Sam watched the news as avidly as anyone else. It was all so surreal—like the crazy stories from the comic books and documentaries had burst into real life. And there on CNN was the blurred, shaky, but still distinguishable footage of the actual Captain America punching an impossible alien halfway down the block.

Once things had settled down and he got used to the idea that Steve Rogers and the other Avengers were around, Sam assumed life would go back to whatever counted as normal in a crazy world that included aliens and Norse gods come to life. But then he started noticing a man he crossed paths with sometimes on his morning run. A very fast man. Incredibly fast.  _Impossibly_ fast. A man who looked like he could probably do three triathlons before he even broke a sweat.

And sure enough, he turned out to be none other than Steve Rogers himself. The little boy in Sam was giddy with excitement to have met and actually  _talked_ with his hero, but the counselor in him recognized almost immediately that this was a deeply hurt, profoundly lonely man.

Who would have thought? The hero also needed to be saved.

Because he had invited Steve to drop by the VA, Sam decided to go to the Smithsonian exhibit and brush up on his history a little, so he could get a better idea of how to help Steve if the opportunity arose. With an actual, firsthand encounter fresh in his mind, several things jumped out at Sam like never before.

Most predominant was the exhibit on Bucky Barnes. Each member of the Howling Commandos had their own exhibit, detailing their lives and what part they had to play on the team. Each had photos and newsreel footage of what they actually looked like at the time. Sam paid careful attention to the clips that also included Steve, watching how he interacted with them.

But then there was a short clip of Steve with Bucky. They were laughing about something, clearly taking their leisure between battles. Sam stared at them for several long minutes, unable to tear his eyes away. Steve looked so  _happy._ His conversation with Sam had been lighthearted, and Steve had smiled and laughed and teased him...but Sam hadn't realized how much was missing from that smile.

Of course, Sam was familiar with the story of how Bucky Barnes had died. All the documentaries and biographies noted how much it had changed Steve, how it had propelled him to his last fight with Johann Schmidt, and how close the two had been since childhood. But only now, seeing the contrast of what Steve was like before and after Bucky's death, did he truly understand.

No wonder he'd felt such an immediate connection to someone old enough to be his grandfather. It was just like how he felt about Riley—only worse, because Steve had known Bucky longer and depended on him for even more than Sam had relied on Riley. But Sam knew what that aching hole in his chest would feel like, and how Steve must try filling it up with a thousand things that never even came close to making up for what he'd lost.

Even now, months later after fighting alongside Steve and learning so much more about him, after helping him save Winter and watching him heal too, Sam hadn't forgotten the brilliance of that smile. Especially now that he knew Steve so much better, and had grown to care for him so much, he longed to see that look of pure joy somewhere other than a grainy black-and-white newsreel. He wanted to see all the lines in his forehead smooth away as his whole face glowed and he tipped his head back in a deep belly-laugh, one that went on so long he couldn't breathe and tears streamed down his cheeks.

But Sam knew that wouldn't happen unless Bucky rose up from his grave in the snowy mountains of eastern Europe. And the world might have gone crazy, but not  _that_ crazy.

So they just had to learn how to live with reality the way it was. As February slowly faded into March, Sam kept a careful eye on the calendar. He knew from plenty of experience with himself and other veterans that certain anniversaries were always difficult. There was a certain day in October that he suffered through every year, usually by getting drunk and then regretting it the next day. He'd been glad to have a distraction in the form of a raving, hallucinating Winter this year.

So one day in late February, Sam waited until Steve had gone into town and then went in search of Winter. He found him in the laundry room, transferring a load from the washer to the dryer. He glanced up, but didn't grow tense or stop what he was doing. It was amazing how much more stable he'd become, even just in the last few weeks.

_Which is good,_ Sam thought,  _because Steve is going to need all the help he can get._

Sam decided to just jump right into it. “How much do you know about Bucky Barnes?”

Winter froze, arms still full of wet laundry, and his eyes darted over to Sam in alarm.  _Okay, maybe not_ that _stable,_ Sam amended to himself. He casually stepped into the room and away from the door, leaving Winter an easy escape if he needed one. “He was Steve's best friend,” Sam continued, since Winter didn't say anything. “They fought together in World War II, but he died in '45. Fell off a train, right in front of Steve.”

Winter still watched him silently, a furrow in his brow showing he didn't know what Sam was getting at.

“Tomorrow's the anniversary of Bucky's death,” Sam explained. “It's going to be rough for Steve; everything's going to remind him of what happened that day. And when I say they were best friends...they were really, _really_ close. Like brothers, you know.”

Winter was giving him a weird look. No, of course he didn't know. But that made Sam wonder: Did Winter have siblings? Did he have a family out there, a mother and father who'd always wondered what had happened to him, or assumed he was dead? Or had Hydra pulled him from some orphanage, gathering up the unwanted dregs of society for their hideous experiments? For that matter, did they even know where Winter was from? He spoke English fluently with an American accent, so Sam had just assumed he originally came from this country. But he seemed to be fluent in several other languages too, so who was to say he didn't come from Romania or something?

But there were more productive things to think about. “Anyway, just give him some space tomorrow,” Sam said, dragging his mind back to the present. “But don't let him be alone for too long either, okay? We'll be there for him when he needs us.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Almost as soon as Steve's eyes opened that morning, a heavy, sickening weight settled into the pit of his stomach. He didn't have to check the date on the digital alarm clock by his bed. He knew exactly what day it was.

For what felt like hours, Steve lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to muster up the will to do anything. He wished he could just fall asleep again, and escape reality in the careless void of sleep. But now that he was awake, he couldn't stop thinking, and he couldn't settle his mind enough for sleep.

Besides, every time he closed his eyes, he saw Bucky's terrified face falling away from him, down into the swirling snow. And no matter how far he reached or how desperately he cried, their fingers never even brushed against each other.

Finally Steve admitted defeat and got out of bed. He could see now why Winter often found it so hard to make it through the night without coming to him for a distraction. Sometimes his excellent memory seemed more like a curse than a blessing. Steve moved slowly, listening to Sam and Winter moving around downstairs. He dragged his feet, not sure he could face the looks of concern and confusion they would surely give him.

By the time he finally made it downstairs, the others were gone. They'd left a plate of breakfast for him, growing cold even under the plate placed carefully on top of it. Steve tried to eat, but it seemed to require a lot more chewing than usual. The cinnamon toast was like cardboard, the cheesy eggs were like rubber, and the crispy bacon was like leather. It was nothing against Sam's culinary skills, but Steve could only force down a few mouthfuls before he sighed and lost interest.

He stood at the kitchen island for a few minutes, listening to the creaks and thumps of the empty house. Everything was empty now, wasn't it? In the whole world, there was no one who could break this solitude.

As agonizing as that was, when he looked out the window and saw Sam and Winter approaching the house from the walk they'd apparently taken, Steve quickly headed for the door. He didn't think he could stand them looking at him, talking to him, requiring a response. So he grabbed his coat and the sketchpad Sam had given him for Christmas, and walked off into the woods before the others could approach the house. He let them see where he was going, so they hopefully wouldn't come looking for him. At least not for a while.

He walked through the trees for several minutes, letting the cabin that had become home slip out of sight and hearing. A cold snap had come through in the past few days, and though there was no snow, frost crunched under his shoes as he walked. The air was cold and still, silent except for the wind rustling through the trees and a few mournful calls of birds looking for food.

Finally, he stopped and sat beneath a pine tree with a relatively dry carpet of dead needles beneath it. Leaning back against the trunk of the tree, Steve pulled out his sketchpad and a pen. He turned to a fresh page, thought for a minute, and then began to write.

_Dear Bucky,_

_Sometimes I still can't believe you're gone._

His pen fell from nerveless fingers and he dropped his head into his hands. The silent air absorbed his muffled sobs.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It was a long time before Steve managed to finish his letter. He had to start over three times, and by the time he was through his fingers were so numb with cold they could hardly hold the pen anymore. More tears had fallen on the page, making the ink run, but...well, it wasn't like Bucky was actually going to read it, right?

He tried not to think about that too much as he trudged back to the cabin. Instead of going inside to warmth and comfort, however, he circled around to the woodpile on the side. Thanks to Winter's need for occupying his hands with tasks that didn't involve knives, they had enough firewood cut to last them through next year even if they kept the fireplace going through the summer.

It was comforting to set the wood in place and coax a small flame into a bonfire. It didn't require much thought, and his fingers began to thaw out as the blaze crackled merrily. He was glad to have a real fire this time. Last year he'd had to resort to using a candle in his apartment.

As he stoked the flames with a long stick, he glanced up and realized that he wasn't alone. Sam and Winter stood nearby, Winter bundled up like he was expecting a blizzard and standing almost dangerously close to the fire. Sam stood a step farther back, watching him.

He probably owed them some sort of explanation for his actions, didn't he? “This is...kind of a tradition of mine,” he said, tossing the stick into the fire. It was still hard to talk about this. “Every year, on the day Bucky...died....” He swallowed with difficulty. “I write him a letter.” He pulled out the folded piece of paper, contemplating it as he let out a deep sigh. Then he kissed the paper and tossed it into the flames.

The letter blackened, curled, and crumbled into ash within seconds. “I burn it,” Steve said quietly, “I guess so my message will reach him in heaven or something, I don't know.” The mirthless chuckle was painful in his throat. “I know, it's stupid.”

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “It's not stupid.”

They stood staring into the fire until the wood burned down to embers.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Steve wasn't entirely sure what he did or said, if he ate anything or if the others spoke to him. His memories seemed more real than the fog of the present he now waded through.

Eventually, Steve found his way out onto the deck. He sat on the bench along the wall of the cabin, gazing aimlessly at the trees rising up the mountains all around. It was so hard to  _care_ today. All he wanted to do was sit here in the silence and the cold. Maybe he could be frozen back into unconsciousness and he wouldn't have to think about the hollow space in his chest and the raw burn in his throat.

It was strange. His loneliness was eating him alive, but he couldn't stand being around the others for very long either. He was all too aware that his presence dragged them down—they wanted to help but didn't know how, so they would worry as long as he was around. He couldn't stand infecting them with his disease of grief.

And yet he wanted someone to talk to, to open up this gaping wound in his heart and let out some of the pressure that had been building up for the last two years. He hadn't been able to talk about Bucky much since he'd woken up in the 21 st century. Until now, he hadn't had friends he felt he could talk to about something so personal. He could trust the other Avengers with his life, but not his heart.

But what would he say, anyway? It wasn't like talking would bring Bucky back. It wasn't like anyone could actually say anything helpful in response to any of the things he most wanted to say. To most, Bucky had died seventy years ago—a lifetime ago, so far back any sting of sorrow would be dull and have lost its deadly poison long ago. It would be hard for them to understand how recent it felt to him.

It wouldn't do any good to say  _I miss him._ They already knew that. If he said  _I want him back_ or  _I wish I could see him again, just once,_ they would say  _We know._ If he talked about how much it hurt, they would say they were sorry or that it would all be okay, but none of that would erase the stark, unbearable truth that Bucky was dead.

The breath he took in was clipped and ragged. The reality of it all was as foreign and harsh as this future he had woken into. There was no one left alive who had known Bucky personally and could share the pain of this kind of loss. Bucky wasn’t even in a proper grave he could visit and pay any feeble respects to. There was only an empty coffin with his name on the headstone deep in Normandy, and the memorial in the museum. Both of which Steve had visited, frequently, but neither held any rest for his warring soul. Beautiful as they were, they were empty reminders that Bucky’s body had never been recovered. No closure, no answers.

 _That’s my fault._ His eyes stung. _My own best friend, who yelled that he wouldn’t leave an exploding building without me, and I couldn’t even bring his body home for his family._

He didn’t want to think anymore.

Steve didn't hear the door opening, but suddenly a warm weight fell onto his shoulders. His fingers plucked feebly at the edge of the blanket, pulling it closed around him. Maybe he should have worn a coat after all. His fingers were so cold he could hardly feel them anymore.

He'd expected to glance up and see Sam, but Winter was the one who settled onto the other end of the bench. Steve idly wondered what had prompted Winter to come out here. Had Sam put him up to it, or had Winter decided to brave the cold on his own?

Out of nowhere, Winter asked, “What was Bucky like?”

Oh. Winter probably didn't know much about him—even less than Sam. And though it made Steve's heart ache to know Winter could never meet Bucky, he realized now that it would be beneficial for him to hear what Bucky had been like. If he couldn't meet such a wonderful man, at least it might do him some good to learn that such people existed.

Maybe talking about Bucky wouldn't help Steve, but it  _would_ help Winter.

“He was a jerk,” Steve said with a wry smile. He could see every detail of his oldest friend, as clear as if yesterday had been 1945. “He would come up with all these hare-brained ideas and then drag me along with him—and I was usually the one who got in trouble, because I couldn't run as fast and they'd catch me. And then he'd pretend he had no idea what I was talking about when I complained to him later.”

His memory pulled up sharp images of Bucky's face as he spoke. Decades' worth of smiles, frowns, laughs, tears. “Bucky was...strong and handsome. Kind. Polite to his elders. Always ready to laugh.” The way his eyes would twinkle even though he kept a straight face, giving away in an instant that he was joking.  Always so genuine and charismatic, drawing people's attention when he entered a room. “He was everyone's favorite. All the girls wanted to dance with him, all the boys wanted him on their team to play ball.”

The way his smile would turn so soft and warm when he looked at Steve,  the Steve everyone else overlooked, like he was Bucky's favorite person in the world.  He had a whole future waiting for him after the war—a family, a life, a purpose. A future that Steve had been looking forward to sharing with him. “He joined the army, not because he loved violence or wanted glory or thought it would be exciting. He just wanted to protect people. And then...did you know that Hydra captured him too?”

He glanced over at Winter, who shook his head. He was watching Steve with an intensity to his gaze that Steve hadn't expected, like he was trying to memorize every word Steve said.

“Yeah,” Steve said quietly, looking down at his hands clutching the blanket. “They tortured him. Experimented on him. I don't even _know_ what all they did to him; he'd never say. It would have been perfectly understandable if he'd gone back home after that, but...he wanted to stay and help me.” He remembered how calm and confident Bucky had been when he said he would follow Steve, not even flinching when they talked about his tormentors. “He wanted to fight back. And he never let his fear get in the way of trying to stop them for good.”

_You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?_

_That little guy from Brooklyn...I'm following him._

“He never had to follow me.” _Even though I asked him to._ “He never had to be my friend.” _Maybe if he wasn't, he would still be alive._ “But....” His voice caught in his throat, stumbling over everything that could have been different.  Before that fateful day that Bucky deployed, Steve had several times imagined a world where he would leave Bucky. With his poor health, he'd come to accept he would probably never reach old age. Never, _never_ did he imagine a world where Bucky would leave him instead. Swallowing painfully,  the torrent raging just beneath the surface of his supposed calm, he took a deep breath and tried to get himself under control again. _Think about something else, anything else...._

Then he felt a tentative hand on his shoulder, and  the dam broke like it was made of wet paper. There was no recovery. He lost the battle instantly. Sobs exploded from his chest, as if the emotions that had been trapped inside for so long were viciously clawing their way out into the open. He buried his face in his hands, unable to stop, barely able to breathe.

Winter's hand slid across Steve's back, turning his simple touch into the invitation of an embrace. Steve leaned into that embrace with a desperation that surprised even himself. He clung to Winter's warm, solid presence like the drowning man he was, fighting to keep his head above the waves of guilt, regret, and grief that kept crashing over him.  He wanted to scream, but his voice was little more than a quivering whisper.

“It's...It's my fault!” Steve gasped, saying the one thing that had been burning to get out in the open more than anything else. “I...I _k-killed_...my best friend....”

_I didn't even get to say goodbye._

“Don't,” Winter whispered, his arms tightening around him. “Don't.”

Winter didn't say anything else, he just held Steve close and let him hurt. He didn't say things would get better, he didn't tell Steve not to cry, he didn't try to cheer Steve up or assure him that Bucky was in a better place.

He did exactly what Bucky would do.

Steve had never really thought about it before, but Bucky had always known exactly how to comfort him best. When Steve's mother had died, everyone else had tried to say encouraging things, to get him to smile or laugh, or at least to not cry. They'd wanted him to focus on the good memories, but a ll he'd been able to do was look at the bleeding pieces of his life where she was supposed to be and try to sort out how to stand again. How to walk again. She was his heart, and he hadn't known how to function without her. But Bucky would just hold him without a word, supporting him and letting him be as broken as he needed to be without an ounce of shame.

It didn't fix the problem, didn't heal the wound, but it was enough. Enough just to know that he had someone who still cared when he was nothing but a shattered mess.

Slowly, his tears drained away and he found he could breathe again. He pressed his streaming eyes to Winter's shoulder, his ear brushing against the cold, smooth surface of the mask.

“Sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, trying to pull himself together. “I know...I know it happened a long time ago, but...for me, it really hasn't been that long, you know? He...d-died....” He choked on the word, barely able to pronounce it. “So soon before I went under the ice. And...it's only been two years since I woke up again. I still haven't gotten used to.... I mean, I still start to say something to him sometimes...and then I r-remember....”

He couldn't do it. He couldn't keep pressing forward in a world that didn't include Bucky. He wasn't strong enough, he'd  _never_ been strong enough to go it alone. There was no way to stitch these bits of his heart back together; every time he tried, it all unraveled in his hands sooner or later.  And he was afraid...afraid he would never find a way to live, or to love, that was not in some way obstructed by the abject horror of everything ever taken from him. He had given the best of his heart without reservation, and he lost it all when the ice claimed his best friend and then him as well. 

Sam deserved better. Winter deserved better. Steve grieved that they put up with him at all.

Winter's hand gently rubbed up and down his spine, and Steve let himself pretend for a moment. He closed his eyes, and imagined Bucky was still there, somehow—that his ghost, or spirit, or whatever you wanted to call it, had reached down through Winter to soothe him.  The feeling cascaded over him, cleansing and rejuvenating him, like water on parched earth.

_I love you, Buck,_ his soul wept silently.  _And I’m so sorry._

The moment passed, and he was warm and safe in Winter's embrace. Whether that feeling of Bucky's presence had been real or not, he wasn't alone. Winter wasn't Bucky...but he was here.

“I miss him,” Steve finally admitted aloud. Somehow, it didn't sound as stupid or as obvious as he'd thought it would. “I miss him so much.”

“Yeah,” Winter sighed. “After everything you've told me about him...I think I miss him too.”

Oh, what a beautiful friendship that would have been. Bucky would offer the same silent, unwavering support he'd always given Steve in his darkest moments. He would make Winter feel so special, and draw him out of his shell with the same natural ease with which he charmed everyone. And Winter would wordlessly encourage Bucky in a way Steve never could. He would show with every day, with every hard-won battle, that it didn't matter what had been done to them. No amount of evil could annihilate such a strong heart.  Yes. Steve was certain Bucky would have liked Winter a great deal.

At least Winter knew the truth about Bucky.  Steve drew in a shuddering breath and squeezed Winter tighter,  warmed by his gentle help. It meant more to him than he had words to express .

“I don't think I'll ever _stop_ missing him,” he murmured, drying his eyes on the blanket. “But I'm so glad I have you, Winter. You're a good friend.”

Even if there were pieces of his heart he couldn’t reach anymore and he would never have the very best of himself to give again, Steve still wanted to be part of what Winter needed most. Winter deserved what he _could_ give. Steve could only pray Winter would forgive him if it came through bashed up with guilt and tinged with sadness at times.

Amid all else, Winter still found a way to give Steve hope.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_When the cares of my heart are many,  
your consolations cheer my soul._

_\- Psalm 94:19_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I had way too much fun coming up with stuff for Sam's backstory. He's such an awesome guy, but we get so little information about his life before Steve in the MCU. So I enjoyed imagining what it must have been like to grow up hearing about the great Steve Rogers, only to wind up one of his best friends. Sam is the cool kind of guy who would take something like that in stride—he doesn't get hung up on Steve's status as a celebrity superhero, but looks past that to see that he's a human being like all of us. I don't think they could become that close that fast otherwise. Still, I indulged myself with a nod to the comics, wherein Sam actually becomes Captain America for a while :D
> 
> I also really, really wanted to give Winter a chance to comfort Steve for a change. Of course Winter needs a lot of help and comfort, and Steve is only too happy to give it to him. But if things continue indefinitely as they have been...that's not friendship. It might be a healthy relationship full of care and warmth, but the power balance would be uneven. For a true friendship to blossom, both sides need to be equal. Both need to contribute. The problem with a situation like this is that it can be hard, especially at first, to see how someone like Winter could contribute to their relationship. What does he have to give to someone as stable and well-grounded and _capable_ as Steve?
> 
> I think you'll agree with me, though, that Winter has a _lot_ to give, and it's exactly what Steve needs most ;)


	10. Into the Flames

_And just say the word_  
_We'll take on the world_  
_And just say you're hurt_  
_We'll face the worst_  
_Nobody knows you the way that I know you_  
_Look in my eyes, I will never desert you_  
_And just say the word_  
_We'll take on the world_

_And it's the fight, the fight of our lives_  
_You and I, we were made to thrive_  
_And I am your future, I am your past_  
_Never forget we were built to last_  
_Step out of the shadows and into my life_  
_Silence the voices that haunt you inside_

_\- “Take on the World” by You Me At Six_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Though winter clung to the mountains with a greater tenacity than down in the valleys, eventually warmer breezes and budding greenery found their way to the cabin on the mountainside. It felt as though they had been here for a lifetime, confined mostly to the area around the cabin by the harsh weather and their focus on rehabilitating Winter. Steve began to feel restless, like he always did this time of year. It wasn't that he particularly disliked the winter, but once he caught the first glimpse of spring, he felt like he needed to go out and  _do_ something.

Unfortunately, day after day of rain put a damper on any outdoor plans they made, and they had to stay cooped up inside unless they wanted to get cold and soaked. Winter avoided going out in the rain as much as he'd avoided the snow, but Steve could tell he was getting just as stir-crazy as he was. Steve kept a careful eye on him, but the amazing thing was that no matter how restless Winter became, he never went back to his knives. Steve had been worried he would fall back into that habit out of sheer boredom.

After a solid week of nothing but rainy, overcast days, the three of them found themselves standing on the porch one morning, looking out gloomily at the steady downpour. The front yard was starting to look like a swamp. The trickling stream in the back was twice its usual size, rushing past loud enough to hear even from where they stood. The air was chilly, but not so cold they would be uncomfortable going for a walk, it if weren't for the rain. But it looked like it was going to be another day stuck inside.

Suddenly, Sam kicked off his shoes, yanked off his socks, and leapt off the porch with a loud whoop and an enormous, muddy splash. He whirled around, arms outstretched, grinning face turned up to the sky. He spun like a top until he'd reached the middle of the yard.

“I used to do this with my brother and sister when we were kids!” Sam cried, laughing as the rain poured over his face and down his arms. Then he lowered his arms and yelled, “Come on, you old fogies! Jump in a puddle! Feel the mud between your toes!”

He demonstrated with such enthusiasm that Steve couldn't help laughing. “You're going to catch your death,” he said, but he pulled off his shoes and socks anyway.

“And you're not?” Sam asked skeptically when Steve joined him in the rain.

Steve drew himself up in mock indignation. “I have the immune system of ten men,” he said. “ _You,_ my friend, do not.”

“Yeah, yeah, we'll see who's laughing when _you_ get a cold.”

He nudged Steve sharply in the ribs, catching him by surprise and almost making him lose his footing on the slippery ground. In retaliation, Steve yanked on Sam's arm hard enough that he ended up flat on his back. But Sam grabbed Steve's leg on the way down, and Steve found himself sitting in a cold puddle of mud next to him. They burst out laughing, knowing how ridiculous they must look, and not caring in the slightest.

Sam cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Hey, Winter, come on down here! You haven't lived until you've run around barefoot in the rain!”

“It's all right,” Steve added when he could see, even from a distance, that Winter was unsure. “It's not that cold once you get used to it. I think you'll like it.”

Winter inched over to the edge of the porch and stepped down onto the top step, but stopped before leaving the shelter of the roof. It had been a while since they'd introduced him to any new experiences. He'd had time to get used to the things he encountered in his daily routine, but there was so much more to the world than what their tiny, secluded life had to offer.

For a moment, as Steve coaxed Winter to take off his shoes and socks, he was reminded of someone who used to do that with him. A boy who convinced him to jump barefoot into puddles even though he knew he would catch a cold. Who urged him to ride the roller coaster even though he was scared. Who taught him how to play ball and practiced with him every day even though he couldn't run very far before he'd have to stop and catch his breath, and no one ever wanted him on their team.

He could hear an echo of Bucky in his voice as he got squelchily to his feet and said, “Come on—it's fun! Just try it!”

Winter shifted his weight uncertainly from one bare foot to the other, peering down at the muddy ground like it was a storm-tossed ocean that he was considering skinny-dipping in. “I...I don't want to fall down....”

“Here.” Steve walked up to the steps and held out his hand. “Just hang onto me; I won't let you fall.”

Winter hesitated, then reached out with his right hand, stepping down to the bottom stair before he could grab Steve's hand. He hunched his shoulders as the rain fell on his head, quickly plastering his hair flat on his scalp.

“Can...Can I hold onto Sam too?” he asked, not looking up from his toes curling over the edge of the step.

Sam looked a little surprised, but he wiped his muddy hand on his shirt and came over agreeably. “Sure thing, man,” he said, taking Winter's metal hand in his.

As Winter slowly lowered one foot, then the other to the ground, clinging to the men on either side, Steve felt like he was assisting an old man unsure of his balance. And from what little Steve knew, Winter  _was_ an old man. An old man in a young body, who had seen so much darkness that the light was frightening.

They took a few cautious steps forward, Winter focusing on his feet and the mud squishing between his toes. Then he slowly let go of Sam's hand, holding his metal hand out in front of him and watching the water run off it in rivulets. The rain made cheerful little tinkling sounds on his fingertips.

Winter's right hand clenched painfully around Steve's, as though he were steeling himself, and then he let go of that hand as well. Steve took a step back, though he stayed within easy reach. Winter cupped his hands together, letting rainwater collect in them, then cascade to the ground.

Slowly, as the rain continued to fall, Winter straightened up. His shoulders lowered, his head raised, and he looked around at the rain-drenched yard. Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back and turned his face to the sky.

The rain smoothed his hair back from his face. Water washed over his forehead, streamed across his mask, and dripped from his hair and his chin. Moisture beaded on his eyelashes like pearls. Then, moving as smoothly and gracefully as a dancer, he raised his arms over his head and slowly began to spin in a circle like Sam had done.

Steve and Sam both backed up, giving him room. Winter spun in a dizzy circle—not because they'd told him to, but because they had introduced him to an experience, and he'd decided he wanted to try it for himself.

Steve probably should have seen it coming, but he was so enraptured by Winter's carefree spinning that he forgot how slippery the ground was. Winter's foot landed on a slick patch of grass, and before Steve could even gasp, he fell flat on his back with his arms outstretched like he was trying to make a snow angel.

Steve hurried to Winter's side, mindful of how nervous he'd been about falling. “Winter, are you o—“

But then his own feet slipped out from under him, and he skidded on his face until he came to rest by Winter's side.

As Steve hurriedly wiped mud out of his eyes, he heard a kind of snort from somewhere close by. Then...was that  _laughter?_ He quickly looked over at Winter, still sprawled on his back. The soft chuckling died away as suddenly as it had started, and Winter looked back at him, eyes as wide as Steve's probably were.

Winter's eyes narrowed slightly and he began to shake. Steve was worried for a moment, until he heard more soft chuckles. Steve grinned and started laughing too, even if it was at his own expense. Winter's laughter was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The weather grew warmer and sunnier towards the middle of April, and they were all glad for a chance to see something other than the view from the windows. One afternoon, while jotting down a list of the things they would need from the grocery store the next day, Steve got an idea. A crazy idea, but one he couldn't shake.

“Winter,” he said slowly, looking up from his list on the kitchen table, “what would you say...if you went into town with me tomorrow?”

Winter looked up in surprise from where he was playing chess with Sam in the living room. They'd never replaced the coffee table Winter had unintentionally broken, so they'd set up the board on an end table instead. Sam had been teaching him how to play, though Winter must have learned at some point in his life; he was improving so quickly it was more like he was remembering rusty skills than developing completely new ones.

“Go...into town?” Winter echoed, as if he'd forgotten there was a world outside the narrow confines of their current life.

“Yeah,” Steve said brightly, warming up to his own idea. “We could walk around the shops, take in the view, stretch our legs.... It's up to you,” he hastily added, when he saw the uncertainty clouding Winter's expression. “It's fine if you don't think you're ready. Just thought you might like a little change of scenery.”

Winter's eyes darted around nervously, his forehead knotted with worry. Then he took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself, rubbing his right hand up and down his leg as if it was sweating. He nodded once and mumbled, “Okay. If we can all go together.”

“Of course.”

So the next day, for the first time in seven months, Winter left the cabin behind. He'd ventured onto the mostly deserted mountain roads while going for a run or a ride on the motorcycle, but he hadn't been in the vicinity of strangers for such a long time. Steve hoped the variety would do him some good.

Even though it was much warmer than it had been for a long time, Winter wrapped his scarf around his face to hide his mask. He ended up looking slightly overheated, but not so strange that he attracted looks from the people they passed. Steve and Sam walked on either side of him, almost like bodyguards, and that seemed to give Winter an extra sense of security.

Before heading to the grocery store, they strolled around the tiny downtown of Silver Pines. They stopped by a few stores to do some window shopping, admired the smells coming from the bakery and the pizzeria, and returned the casual greetings everyone who passed by gave them. There was an overlook just past the laundromat, an area right off the main street that afforded a breathtaking view of the valley below. Coin-operated binoculars were set up along the railing, and they stopped next to one to look out across the mountain range.

Steve loved observing Winter as they explored this little town. He intently watched everyone in sight—not as though he were suspicious or afraid, but almost like he was...curious. Like he was watching to see how other people interacted, measuring what he saw against what he'd experienced, both with Hydra and with Steve and Sam.

It wasn't that Winter had never been out in the world, of course. But this was probably the first time he hadn't been looking at everyone as potential targets or potential threats. Now, he could finally relax and see what normal human interaction was like. An old couple tottering across the street. A man greeting his wife or girlfriend at the pizzeria with a kiss and a bouquet of roses. A group of college kids, probably here for spring break, laughing and chattering as they passed on the sidewalk.

Steve smiled and breathed deeply of the cool mountain air. Life had been so strange for the last several months; it was soothing just to be around ordinary people with ordinary concerns.  _Especially in a serene place like this where nothing much ever happens,_ he thought.

They continued their walk, circling around to head back to the grocery store, when they  noticed a large group of people gathered around outside the electronics store. Several TVs were displayed in the front window, usually tuned in to the news or some nature channel that would show off the crystal-clear resolution of the screens. Steve was about to lead the way across the street so they could avoid the crowd, but then he caught sight of what they were all watching.

On the largest screen, which rose above the cluster of heads, they could see a firefighter up on a ladder, valiantly battling the flames that gushed out the second-story window of a house in a Silver Pines neighborhood.

The image switched to the newscaster for a moment, then an overhead view of the area. The fire had spread to several neighboring houses, catching trees on fire and showering embers on nearby roofs. One thing Steve could say for that TV was that it certainly had a quality display; it looked so vivid he could almost smell the smoke.

Wait. He  _ could _ smell smoke.

Steve looked around in surprise. He'd recognized the area from the aerial view; it was at the other end of town. Silver Pines was small, to be sure, but not so small that they should actually be able to smell it yet.

Then he saw smoke trailing into the air close by, in the exact opposite direction from where the fire was supposed to be. Far too much smoke to simply be from someone's chimney. He turned to the others, who had turned to the column of smoke and seemed to come to the same conclusion he had.

“Let's go.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Over the past several months, Steve had explored every inch of Silver Pines, so it didn't take him long to drive to the source of the smoke. His heart sank to his toes as they turned the final bend and saw bright, crackling flames engulfing the elementary school. The fire was spreading fast, and even if the firefighters had heard about the situation, it would take them far too long to get anyone here. If there were people stuck inside the building, it would soon be too late for them.

Steve pulled the car to a screeching halt in the school bus parking lot across the street from the school. Sheets of flame licked hungrily up the sides of the building and began to nibble at the roof. Children and staff were clustered in the empty parking spots, watching the fire devour the building. The fearful cries of children and agitated voices of adults on their phones did nothing to cover up the roar of the fire.

Hopping out of the car, Steve quickly grabbed his shield from the trunk before heading over to the fearful cluster of people. He'd kept his shield in the car all this time just in case, hidden underneath a blanket. He hadn't intended to use it, since it would immediately break their cover even if no one had recognized him before. But for him, the shield was almost like a police badge: an immediately recognizable symbol that would tell people he had the ability and desire to help. It would get people to cooperate quickly, and right now they had very little time to waste.

As he ran towards them, some of the children began pointing excitedly. Steve made a beeline for a middle-aged man in a suit, who looked like he might be in a position of some authority.

“Is everyone out of the building?” Steve demanded, keeping his shield in plain sight so no one could mistake his identity.

“Um, ah, no,” the man stammered, gaping between the shield and Steve's face. “We're still missing—Linda?”

A frazzled-looking woman whose blonde hair was escaping the bun at the back of her head consulted the clipboard in her hands. “The fourth grade class hasn't shown up, and some of the kindergartners are missing. A few of the kitchen staff....”

But that was all Steve needed to hear. He turned to Sam and Winter, who were close behind him. Sam had already strapped on his Falcon wings, and Winter had taken off his scarf and bulky coat. They both looked to him expectantly.

“Okay, there's three floors,” Steve said swiftly, taking in the burning building at a glance. “Sam, you take the top floor; I'll take the second. Winter, the ground floor. Sweep every room for stragglers, even the bathrooms. Stay out front when you're done; I don't want you getting trapped.”

“On it,” Sam said, whipping out his wings and soaring towards one of the windows on the top floor, well away from the portion of the roof that was burning.

Winter started running for the school as soon as Steve stopped talking, not even taking the time to nod. Later, when he had time to think about it, Steve would wonder at this. Did Winter feel the same urgency as the others to rescue those who were trapped in the school, or was he just so used to following orders that he didn't question it?

As he followed Winter across the street, Steve scanned the windows on the second floor. One was open with a crowd of children leaning out, some of them screaming, others waving frantically at him. A large woman who appeared to be their teacher was attempting to pull them back from the window.

“Ma'am, are you trapped?” Steve called up to her when he reached the building.

“Y-Yes,” the teacher called down shakily. “The door handle is hot, so I think the fire's in the hallway....”

“All right.” Steve slung his shield on his back and held his arms up to the window. “Pass the children down to me; I'll catch them. It's all right, son,” he added to the boy who stood closest to the window. “You're safe with me.”

The boy peered down uncertainly. “Are you  _ really _ Captain America?”

“I really am,” Steve said, trying not to let his impatience show. They were wasting  valuable time, but he had to keep everyone as calm as possible. Panicking would only make things worse. “Didn't you see my shield?”

That seemed to convince the boy, who sat on the windowsill, swung his legs over the side, and fell into Steve's waiting arms. “Atta boy,” Steve said, setting him on his feet. “Now step back out of the way, all right?”

The teacher helped the rest of the children climb out the window and drop into Steve's arms. Some only went reluctantly, crying or screaming on the way down, while others just seemed eager to get away from the fire. A few clutched at Steve when he tried to put them down, too frozen with fear to let go until he spoke softly to them and pried their fingers away.

But soon, the only one left was the teacher herself. She stared down at Steve from the window, unmoving. She swayed as though she might faint, the whites of her eyes stark against her dark skin. “Your turn, ma'am!” he called up to her, bracing himself for her extra weight.

“Are you  _ sure _ you can catch me?” she yelled doubtfully.

“Positive. Please, ma'am, it's not safe....”

Her students chimed in, shouting encouragement at her.

“C'mon, Miss Upton! Jump!”

“You can do it!”

“It's not even scary!”

Slowly, Miss Upton squeezed out the window, clutching to the frame with all her might. Then something exploded in a different part of the building, her hands slipped, and she fell with a bloodcurdling scream into Steve's arms. He staggered back a step, then put the heavyset woman back on her feet. The children crowded around them, cheering, but Steve quickly extricated himself from the crowd and directed them to cross the street before he turned back to the burning building.

He briefly considered going through the front door and up the stairs to the second floor, but the fire was spreading too fast. Smoke already poured out of half the windows on the east side of the building. So instead he took the direct route. He tossed his shield through a window with no smoke billowing out of it, then used the drainpipe and the cracks between the bricks to climb up to the second floor.

After retrieving his shield from where it had become lodged in a whiteboard, Steve quickly began looking through the rooms on that floor. All of the rooms the fire hadn't reached were empty, so he turned his attention to the harder task of searching the burning section of the building.

The heat, which he'd been able to ignore so far, hit him like a physical force when he turned to face the fire. He thought longingly of the flame-retardant uniforms S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided for him, but the best he could do for now was hold his shield up in front of his face so he could at least breathe.

The fire completely blocked off the way to the stairs, and he could tell at a glance there was no way he could reach the farthest couple of rooms, including the classroom the students had just escaped. There was no way anyone could survive that inferno now, so he hoped everyone had managed to get out. He carefully peeked inside a couple classrooms, where desks were catching on fire and papers were curling into blackened piles of ash.

Coughing, he returned to the hallway, ready to give up and leave before the fire spread any more and he was trapped. But then he saw a man lying on the floor in the hallway. For now, he was protected from the advancing flames by a large puddle of water surrounding an overturned bucket. This and the mop still clutched in the man's hand suggested he was the janitor. Probably passed out because of the smoke.

Steve rushed to the man's side. Though he didn't respond to Steve's touch, his pulse beat faintly in his neck. He lay flat on his face, and when Steve quickly inspected him for injuries, the only one he found was a bloody lump on the back of his head. Steve glanced around as he strapped his shield onto his back again and carefully lifted the janitor into his arms. He didn't see any fallen debris nearby that might have landed on this man's head. And it obviously hadn't come from the fall; he'd fallen forward.... It was almost as though someone had  _ deliberately _ knocked him out.

But there was no time to think about that. A support beam crashed onto the floor at the far end of the hall, and another wave of heat washed over him. It was hard to breathe in the clouds of smoke filling the air, but Steve crouched as low as he could with the janitor in his arms and picked his way back to a window at the other end of the hall.  He moved as quickly as he could, all too aware of the fire greedily eating up the hallway behind him.

But the window only seemed to be getting farther away. Steve struggled on, gasping and coughing, sweat pouring down his face, hoping there was still a chance for this man. He hadn't found it so hard to breathe since before he'd gained a body without asthma.

When Sam suddenly appeared at the window, Steve was happier than he'd ever been to have someone disobey his orders. Sam kicked the window in and carefully knocked shards of glass out of the way as Steve struggled up to him.

“Take him,” Steve coughed, handing over the janitor's limp body.

Sam sped away with the janitor, and Steve only allowed himself a moment to catch his breath before following. It was an easy drop to the ground for him, but he was so exhausted he stumbled and dropped to one knee.

As he wearily pushed himself back onto his feet and started across the road, he saw that emergency vehicles had finally begun to show up. Paramedics were bustling around Sam and the janitor, and several others were seeing to the various burns and injuries of other people who had been rescued. The firefighters were busily trying to put out the fire, sending white clouds of smoke and steam into the air as they doused the flames.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Steve waved off a paramedic and scanned the crowd for Winter. He found him in the last place he'd expected: sitting on the tailgate of someone's pickup, surrounded by children.

Steve stopped, unable to suppress a fond smile. Winter looked completely bewildered, even a little frightened, to be surrounded by clamoring five-year-olds. He was as soot-streaked and sweaty as Steve was, completing his intimidating appearance with the black mask. His left sleeve was torn and scorched up to his elbow, exposing his metal arm.

None of this seemed to daunt the children, who chattered away and hung off him like they'd known him all their lives. One girl leaned up against his knee, sucking her thumb and absently stroking his metal arm. Winter sat very still, his eyes darting around as he tried to keep them all in view. He looked as though he was afraid they would scatter like sparrows if he so much as twitched.

“An assassin babysitter,” Sam said, coming to stand next to Steve. “That's a new one.”

Steve grinned and was about to reply when he spotted a van pulling into the parking lot. Emblazoned on the side was the logo of a local news channel—the same one that had been reporting on the other fire. As soon as the van pulled to a halt, a camera crew got out and began preparing to film the school.

“Sam, Winter—we need to leave. Now.”

Both of them turned to see what he was looking at, and seemed to understand what he meant right away. Winter quickly stood up, pulling away from the children who cheerfully waved goodbye. Steve hurriedly led the way back to their car. He knew he'd blown their cover the instant he brought out the shield, but he didn't regret it. If they'd been delayed even just a few minutes, they might not have been able to rescue all those people.

“Well,” Sam said as they drove back to the cabin, “now it'll be all over the news that Captain America was here. And this place is pretty small. They'll figure out where we are by the end of the day.”

Steve nodded grimly. “And once word of that gets out, anyone still loyal to Hydra will probably come after me. After what I did in September, they'll want revenge at the very least.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at Winter, who was staring down at his knees. “And we need to be far away when that happens.”

They drove in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. Steve ran through the other safe houses Natasha had directed him to, trying to decide which would be the best one to disappear to next. Then Sam broke the silence. “You know...there's something that's been bothering me. Two fires. Same time. One at each end of the town. And this isn't a big town.”

Steve frowned thoughtfully. He thought he knew where Sam was going with this. “What are you saying? That it's...arson?”

“Either that, or the worst coincidence  _ I've _ ever seen. And that fire spread really fast. Like someone helped it along. Maybe tampered with the sprinkler system or something.”

“I don't think we'll know for sure unless we get a chance to investigate...and that's not going to happen. Still...I was starting to wonder too.” He briefly told Sam about the suspicious nature of the janitor's injury.

“Why would someone do that?” Sam asked, shaking his head in disgust. “Burning down a  _ school... _ endangering kids' lives....”

“I don't know.”

Steve pulled up to the cabin then, so there was no time for further talk. They needed to get back on the road as soon as possible. Steve bustled around, packing up their belongings as quickly as he could, not pausing to clean himself up even though he felt grimy and disgusting after the fire. He also kept the shield close by at all times—just in case.

A quiet but insistent “Psst!” broke through Steve's worried catalog of everything they would have to do to be sure no one would follow them. He looked up to find Sam standing in the doorway to his room.

Sam stepped in and took the duffel bag from Steve's hands. “Winter,” he whispered, tilting his head in the direction of the room next door. “You need to talk to him; I'll finish up here.”

Steve was confused and a little irritated to be interrupted when they had so little time to spare, but all of that faded away when he looked into Winter's room and saw him standing in the middle of the floor, staring straight ahead at nothing. His fists were clenched by his sides, and the suitcase they'd given him sat empty on his bed.

“Winter?” he said as he stepped into the room, forcing his voice to gentleness though he wanted to shout that they needed to hurry up.

As he drew closer, Steve realized Winter was trembling. “Hey,” he said, shaking Winter's shoulder slightly. “You okay?”

His touch seemed to rouse Winter from his trance. He blinked, focused on Steve, then let out a groan and covered his face with both hands. “It's happening,” he muttered. “I knew it would, and now it's finally happening.” He lowered his hands, hugging himself as though cold even after fighting through a raging inferno.

“They're coming for me,” he said, sinking down onto the edge of his bed. “They'll find me. They'll...They'll take me back.” He gave a sudden, desperate gasp and scraped his fingers up his scalp to tangle in his hair. “I can't, I-I-I can't  _ can't _ go back. Not now. Not...a-after  _ this. _ They'll h-hurt me...I-I don't....”

“Hey, hey, shhh....” Steve sat down next to him and turned Winter's head to face him, using his hands like blinders so Winter couldn't see anything else. “Listen to me. You're not going anywhere without us, understand? Hydra's not taking you away.”

Steve could feel Winter's pulse pounding away in his temples. “But...l-last time....”

“It's not going to  _ be _ like last time.” He remembered Winter telling them, so long ago it seemed, what had happened when he'd tried to run away before. His heart ached to think of Winter out on the road all alone, trembling and pleading as Hydra agents closed in and dragged him away to that dreadful chair again.

“Sam and I are going to be right beside you every step of the way,” he said as Winter blinked rapidly, as if to keep tears back. “Don't you remember what I promised you when we first met? I'm going to do everything in my power to keep you safe from them, to make sure they don't lay a finger on you ever again.”

“But it's  _ Hydra, _ ” Winter said in a desperate whisper, as if afraid they were listening through the walls. “Even if you say that....”

“Winter,” he said firmly, looking right into the frightened blue eyes that stared back at him. “Do you trust me?”

Slowly, the furrows in Winter's brow smoothed out and his pulse slowed down beneath Steve's fingertips. He drew in a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly. “Yes.”

Steve couldn't help smiling at the confidence in Winter's voice. “Then let  _ me _ worry about Hydra. All you have to worry about right now is putting your things in this suitcase. Can you do that for me?”

Winter sat a little straighter and nodded. The fear was past.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_When I am afraid, I put my trust in you._

_\- Psalm 56:3_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: While I was first outlining this story, I got a little stuck at this part. I knew none of the characters were quite ready for the ending yet, but I wasn't sure what should happen between now and then. I sensed that I needed some new stressor to bring them closer together and develop them a little more. But what? As usual, NewMoonFlicker came to the rescue and suggested this little story arc. Though I still think of the events in this chapter as the beginning of the climax, when I look at the story as a whole, I just have to laugh, because it takes up almost half the story XD
> 
> A minor detail that stood out to me as I was giving this one last look before posting: I love imagining Winter/Bucky interacting with children. I think he'd be one of those people who gruffly says they're no good with kids, yet inexplicably kids just LOVE him. Looking back on this chapter, I think the little moment with Winter and the kindergartners might have been the initial seed of inspiration for my fic “Honey, I've Been There.”  
> /shameless self-plug


	11. Hail Hydra

_Even if we can't find heaven, I'm gonna stand by you_  
_Even if we can't find heaven, I'll walk through hell with you_  
_Love, you're not alone, 'cause I'm gonna stand by you_  
  
_Yeah, you're all I never knew I needed_  
_And the heart—sometimes it's unclear why it's beating_  
_And, love, if your wings are broken_  
_We can brave through those emotions, too_  
_'Cause I'm gonna stand by you_

_..._

_I'll be your eyes till yours can shine_  
_And I'll be your arms, I'll be your steady satellite_  
_When you can't rise, well, I'll crawl with you on hands and knees_  
_'Cause I...I'm gonna stand by you_

_\- “Stand by You” by Rachel Platten_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

As far as Steve could tell, no one followed them as they left Silver Pines and traced the Appalachians south. He was sadder than he'd expected to be to leave that cabin behind. It had been the backdrop for so many memories over the past several months—many scenes of stress and worry, but also a lot of good times. Laughter, peace, comfort.... For a moment, he let himself wistfully think that one day, when this was all over, they could go back. At least for a little while.

But for now, they had to lie low somewhere no one would think to look for them. After flipping through Natasha's folder, Steve finally picked another of the little cabins she had arranged for them. This one was tucked away in the backwoods of Tennessee far from any connections to any of them. For that matter, it was far away from pretty much  _ everything. _

As they pulled into the gravel driveway in front of the cabin, Steve saw that this one was even smaller in person than it had looked in the picture. It was one of several cabins dotted about the nearby hillsides, all of them owned by a man who, according to Natasha's notes, spent his winters in Florida and didn't come back up here until June. That would give them a few weeks of security, at least.

This cabin had no porch or deck, just a step up to the front door. There was no chimney either, and when they went inside they saw there wasn't even a television in the cozy main room. (Steve didn't mind, but Sam declared this was a clear sign that their unwitting host was a stingy old miser.) The couches and chairs in the main room were mismatched, the kitchen area was cramped, and the wooden table in the corner wobbled when they set a few bags on it.

There were no separate bedrooms upstairs, just a large open loft area that overlooked the main room. Three twin beds were lined up along the wall opposite the loft railing, beneath a large window looking out over the valley. The small bathroom in the corner of the loft had no lock on the door.

Compared to the privacy and space of the previous cabin, this one felt small and stuffy, hardly better than a motel room. Steve dropped the duffel bag he carried on one of the beds and watched Winter as he took in their new surroundings. “Is this going to be okay?”

Winter looked up, as if surprised to be asked his opinion. He shrugged awkwardly. “We don't have a choice.”

Steve smiled patiently. “Yes we do. If you're not comfortable with this, we'll find someplace else.” It was late, and it had been a long, exhausting day even before the long drive south. But there was no point in staying somewhere Winter wouldn't be able to relax. They were trying to keep him safe, and that included making sure he  _ felt _ safe.

Winter processed this for a bit, then cast his gaze over the beds lined up next to each other and the bathroom with its insubstantial protection.

“You won't come in...unless I say you can?” Winter said, pointing at the bathroom. It sounded like he wasn't sure if that should be a question or a statement.

“No. I promise.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Sam said, whose expression of restraint suggested he was dying to make a joke, but refrained when he saw how serious Winter was.

Winter slowly nodded. “Okay, then. It's fine.”

“Well, now that that's settled...” Steve said briskly, grabbing his bag off the bed. “Dibs on the shower!” And he raced for the bathroom.

“Hey!” Sam called after him. “I was going in there!”

Steve turned back at the door with a cheeky grin and said in a singsong voice, “I love you, Sam!”

“Was that a joke?” Winter asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” Steve chuckled. “Though I seriously do love you, Sam,” he added, blowing him a kiss and batting his eyelashes.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too—jerk!” Sam threw a pair of balled-up socks at the bathroom door as Steve closed it with a laugh.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Though their new abode wasn't quite as comfortable or convenient as the last cabin, it was adequate for their needs and they soon grew used to it. They did their best to return to their usual pursuits, though it was hard to relax completely when they were all looking over their shoulders, hoping that Hydra wasn't following them.

But one week passed, then two, and there were no attackers slipping in at night, no one accosted them when they went to the closest town for groceries, and no one was watching them through the curtains. Maybe Hydra had been so crippled by the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. that they couldn't muster the resources necessary to go after Steve. He started to breathe a little easier.

After some initial nervousness and obvious discomfort at being in a completely new location, Winter seemed to handle the transition pretty well. He spent many days roaming the hills with one or both of the others, picking new spring flowers and trying to coax birds down to eat out of his hands.

So Steve was surprised when he realized Sam was the one having the hardest time in their new location.

Looking back on it later, Steve realized he had begun to take Sam's steady strength for granted. Sam always seemed to take everything in stride, from Winter's many challenges to Steve's concerns. He would listen patiently, make a joke or a sarcastic comment, and somehow all of the insurmountable difficulties they faced seemed like everyday challenges that were well within their power to overcome. Nothing overwhelmed him. Nothing was too big or too crazy or too surprising that Sam Wilson couldn't take care of one steady step at a time.

But, just like all of them, Sam was only human. And no matter how unruffled he might have seemed by everything they'd been through, he was still carrying his full share of stress and worry. During the lowest points, when Winter had been cutting himself and Steve had been at the end of his rope, Sam had taken up the slack. There were times when he'd had to carry both of them.

So much of the time, Steve's focus was primarily on Winter, because his struggles were so obvious and potentially life-threatening. He had to admit that most of the time, he had no attention to spare for noticing when Sam was hurting.

He should have noticed the severe dip in Sam's mood during that week when it poured rain every day. Why didn't he realize how hard Sam was trying to stay positive and cheerful, to help them make good memories in the rain and the days stuck inside? He ought to have at least noticed how Sam flinched every time thunder rumbled in the distance.

But because he _hadn't_ noticed, it took him completely by surprise when he started awake to a loud crack of thunder and a bloodcurdling scream.

In the bright flashes of lightning that shone through the window, Steve saw that he was safe in his bed in the cabin, but it was harder to convince his heart to stop racing. He quickly looked to Winter's bed on his right, and in another blinding flash of lightning saw that Winter was wedged into the space between his bed and the wall, clutching a book and a pillow as if they were a sword and shield. It would have been a comical sight if Steve's heart didn't feel like it was trying to leap out of his chest.

Then there was another deafening peal of thunder, and another scream. Steve whipped around to look at Sam's bed on his other side. Sam sat upright, clutching his head with both hands and gulping in air like a drowning man. Even as Steve struggled to extricate himself from his tangle of sheets and help, Sam put his head between his knees and struggled to control his breathing.

Steve perched on the edge of Sam's bed, rubbing his back and murmuring the same soothing phrases he always used with Winter. After a minute or two, Winter clicked on the lamp on the bedside table. Its warm, steady glow helped more than Steve had expected, offsetting the jarring, unpredictable white flashes.

For having woken up in a screaming terror, Sam calmed down surprisingly quickly. Steve could tell he'd done this before, many times—maybe every time he found himself in a thunderstorm. The storm raged around the cabin for several minutes, then blew further down the mountainside, grumbling as it left nothing but the steady patter of raindrops against the slanted roof.

With a groan, Sam finally straightened up, rubbing his hands over his face. “Thanks,” he said, checking his own pulse. “Haven't had one that bad in a while.”

“How can I help?” Steve asked, rubbing his hand across the tight muscles of Sam's upper back.

Sam grunted, pulling his knees up again and resting his forehead against them. “You could keep doing that for a few minutes,” he said, already starting to relax.

So Steve proceeded to give Sam a shoulder massage. It brought back fond memories of when the other Howling Commandos had discovered Steve giving Bucky a back rub (very carefully, for fear he would snap Bucky's spine with his newfound strength). The others had clamored up to him one by one, complaining of one ailment after another that could only be cured by a massage from Steve Rogers.

“You could make a lot of money doing this, you know,” Sam said, practically melting as Steve worked on a knot at the base of his neck.

“I'll keep that in mind if I'm ever out of a job,” Steve chuckled.

He glanced up and saw that Winter had, in his usual silent way, crept closer and sat at the foot of Steve's bed, watching with a curious tilt to his head. He still hugged the pillow to his chest, and if not for his metal arm and menacing mask, he would almost have looked like a child at a slumber party.

“It's the thunder,” Sam said quietly. “Sounds like gunfire, you know? I actually used to like thunderstorms, but now....” He sighed. “All I can see is Riley...falling....”

Silence closed over them, except for the steady fall of rain. Steve kept his hands moving, kneading warmth and comfort back into Sam's tight muscles.

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance. Sam cleared his throat, as if to cover up the sound. “You guys go back to bed,” he said, gently shrugging off Steve's hands and getting to his feet. “I'm not getting any more sleep tonight.”

“Sure you'll be okay?” Steve asked, reluctant to leave Sam alone. But he knew Sam wouldn't want them to coddle him, or inconvenience themselves for his sake. That would just make him feel guilty for something that wasn't his fault.

“I'll be fine,” Sam said, smiling weakly as a louder thunderclap echoed around the hills. “I'll just...make a cup of hot chocolate or something. Seriously, just go back to sleep.”

Steve hesitated, but it was Winter who put his foot down. “ _I_ want hot chocolate,” he said quietly.

Steve grinned. “Better make that three cups, Sam.”

That was how they found themselves sitting around the table downstairs, Steve laughing so hard his sides hurt, while Winter sipped his third cup of chocolate behind his bandanna and Sam told them about the time Riley had let a raccoon loose in boot camp and made it look like the drill sergeant had done it.

They were having such a good time they didn't even notice when the thunder fell silent and the rain stopped.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Peace was always far too short-lived. Steve kept a wary eye out for any sign that Hydra was on to them, and did his best to follow the investigation into the school fire. Unfortunately, Silver Pines was a small enough town that no one seemed to care what happened there, so there wasn't much information to find. Still, he made sure to keep an eye on the local paper, just in case. If Hydra had been responsible for that fire, they might start another one just to draw him out of hiding.

So when Steve stepped out of the shower and heard Sam calling, “Cap, there's something you gotta see!” in a worried tone, he was pretty sure he knew what it was about.

He hurried into his clothes and left the bathroom still combing his hair. The tinny sound of a newscaster's report echoed throughout the cabin, but Steve couldn't understand what the woman was saying until he got downstairs. Winter watched over Sam's shoulder as he held up his phone, their only source of news in this isolated location.

Steve's gut lurched as he stepped behind Sam to see what was on the little screen. Smoke curled into the sky as firefighters worked to put out a burning tree before it caught its neighbors on fire as well. In the background, a safe distance behind the newscaster, stood a twisted, blackened structure of some kind in the middle of what looked like a shallow crater.

The twisted metal and plastic in the middle of the crater looked...strange. It definitely wasn't the remains of a house, so what....

Steve recoiled with a gasp when he recognized the mangled remains of a swing dangling from one of the metal poles. It was a playground. The one in the park he sometimes passed through while he was in town. The favored haunt of children of all ages was now only a blackened shell.

“When did this happen?” he demanded.

“Yesterday afternoon,” Sam said, stopping the video and pulling something else up on his phone. “I found out when I saw this was today's headline.”

He turned the phone around to show a picture of the front page of the local newspaper.  _'CAPTAIN AMERICA' BOMBS LOCAL PLAYGROUND._

“ _What?_ ” Steve snatched the phone out of Sam's hand and scrolled down to read further.

_At 6:30 Thursday morning, local police received a letter allegedly written by Captain America, claiming responsibility for the Lee Memorial Park bombing. The bomb, which detonated at approximately 4:15 Wednesday evening in a playground area in the middle of the park, left 12 dead and 8 in critical condition in St. Mary's Hospital._

_A police representative, who preferred to remain anonymous, stated that the letter they received contained details about the bomb not disclosed to the public. “As far as we can tell, this letter was composed by the actual bomber,” the representative said. “We are pursuing several leads as to the identity, but it's too early to say whether the writer is using Cap's name as an alias or not.”_

_Captain America has not made a public appearance since the S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra data leak seven_ _months ago, and other known members of the Avengers declined to comment. Only Stark Industries' public relations office confirmed the Captain's whereabouts at this time are unknown._

_Due to the ongoing investigation and in consideration of the victims and their families, police released this redacted copy of the letter with purportedly only bomb-specific information removed._

 

_**I am Captain America.** _

_**I left a present for little Johnny Warner and his friends to find, and everything went according to plan. You're probably wondering why I did it. Why did I blow all those happy little smiles away, and on Johnny's birthday too?** _

_**It's because I don't care. I don't care about you. I don't care about your families. I don't care if this whole country goes up in flames. I started by destroying your first line of defense, and I won't stop until the rest of the country has burned to the ground along with its precious heroes. Only then will we have equality.** _

_**Hail Hydra.** _

 

Steve put Sam's phone down on the table before he could crush it in his shaking hands. There was more to the article, but he couldn't keep reading. He bent over his fists curled on top of the table, breathing raggedly and wondering if he was going to throw up or scream.

He didn't know how long he stood there, mind blank and ears deaf to everything around him. His whole being was filled with a white roar like a river rushing headlong over a waterfall. It was as hard to breathe as when he'd discovered that Hydra was still around, and had infiltrated the top ranks of the very organization he served. Only this was worse, because this horrible, senseless tragedy had been done in  _his_ name.

Winter's quiet, muffled voice broke through the fog of horror and fury. “I think I know who did it.”

Steve looked up to see Winter examining the article on Sam's phone. He glanced warily, almost apologetically, between the two of them and put the phone down.

“I...I don't know his real name.” Winter's voice was quiet—hesitant, like he was treading on forbidden ground just talking about his old life. “Everyone in Hydra uses code names, to hide their identities even from each other. They called him Crossbones.”

Even though he had no idea who this man was, just the sound of his name sent chills down Steve's spine. “What can you tell us about him?”

“When...When Hydra needed to get rid of an individual...quickly and efficiently...I was the one they'd use.” Winter's eyes dropped to the tabletop, and he hesitated for a long moment before continuing. “But if they wanted to kill lots of people, and they didn't care how much mess it made, or they wanted to give someone a warning...they'd send in Crossbones.”

Winter rubbed his arms as if to stave off a chill. “I...I worked with him...sometimes. He was one of...P-Pierce's favorites.” He shuddered slightly, no doubt trying to suppress memories too terrible for words.

“He's a leader,” Winter continued after a moment. “Crossbones never works alone; he'll have a whole team backing him up. They'll all be as skilled as they come—and disciplined; Crossbones hates disorder. Even if Hydra doesn't have enough manpower to give him a whole team, he has a partner who's almost as bad as he is. Ruthless. Merciless. As long as he gets to kill someone, he doesn't care who it is.”

“So what's the partner's name?” Sam muttered. “Skull?”

“Sam,” Steve said quellingly. He knew Sam was just trying to defuse the tension as usual, but neither he nor Winter were in the mood for jokes.

“Whoever Crossbones kills,” Winter said softly, “he'll make sure they die in the most painful way possible. He...likes making people hurt.”

Steve listened to Winter's voice fading away, watched him hug himself protectively, and wondered. If Crossbones had worked for Pierce, the man who had sent Winter after Steve...and Winter had to be brainwashed using that awful contraption Zola had told them about....

“So what do we do, Cap?” Sam asked, breaking Steve's train of thought blissfully short. “This guy's obviously trying to draw you out of hiding. Where should we go next?”

Steve clenched his jaw. “We're not going anywhere.” He was tired of hiding, tired of letting the fear of Hydra dictate his actions. “This Crossbones guy is trying to draw me out of hiding? Fine, I won't hide. He can bring the fight straight to me instead of killing children. I'm not afraid of him.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 _When the wicked advance against me to devour me,_  
_it is my enemies and my foes who will stumble and fall._  
_Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear;_  
_though war break out against me, even then I will be confident._

_..._

_Do not turn me over to the desire of my foes, for false witnesses rise up against me, spouting malicious accusations._

_\- Psalm 27:2-3, 12_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's wondering what joke Sam was dying to make when Winter made them promise not to barge in on him in the bathroom, it would have gone something like, “Cross my heart and hope to die—which I would if I ever saw your naked butt.” :P
> 
> I will take every opportunity I can find to shine a spotlight on Sam, because he is a wonderful human being and gets overlooked far too often. And I guess the emphasis this time is that he's a human being. Sometimes the ones who seem strongest and happiest, who can take everything life throws at them, just need a chance to break down and be comforted too. And who better to comfort him than his brothers in arms who have suffered the same grief and trauma that he has?
> 
> Lastly, I'm just really glad to have another excuse to stick my tongue out at the whole Hydra!Cap debacle :P Crossbones knows Steve far too well, so he knows exactly what would hurt him the most: Killing innocent children for no reason, smearing his name in the mud, and telling everyone that he's working for his greatest enemy. No one who knows Steve even a little bit would be fooled by such actions, but the average citizen might start to wonder. To doubt their hero and everything he stands for. Having to stand by and watch that happen would slowly kill Steve.
> 
> (Incidentally, Crossbones' partner? The one Sam calls “Skull”? He's that one distinctive S.T.R.I.K.E. guy you'll often see at Rumlow's side, the one who looks like he's never smiled in his entire life. He's the one who asks if Steve was wearing a parachute when he jumps down to the Lemurian Star, and the one who holds a gun to Steve's head when they catch him after the bridge battle, but Rumlow tells him, “Not here!” I don't know why I feel it's so important for me to point him out, but hey, now you know :P)


	12. Ultimatum

_Now it falls all around me_  
_Did I think I could run away?_  
_Now it's coming to find me_  
_This war that I deserve_  
_Now it burns across this shattered earth_  
_I lift my eyes to fire_  
  
_Under a falling sky_  
_Hopeless, there's nowhere to hide_  
_The terror is real this time_  
_Under a falling sky_

_\- “Falling Sky” by Red_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve didn't tell anyone who he was when he went into town. He didn't carry his shield and parade around, but he also didn't even attempt to hide or disguise himself. He didn't wear sunglasses or a hat, didn't avert his eyes when people looked at him.

And people definitely looked. After the letter claiming to be from him was printed in the newspaper, his picture was all over the news. As the investigation unfolded in the days following the explosion, Steve was surprised at how many people still supported him. There were certainly some people who said they'd 'always known' something like this would happen, and that all enhanced individuals ought to be locked away in a lab before they caused such destruction. But the news channels interviewed experts who had analyzed the handwriting in the letter, and historians and psychologists who all agreed how unlikely it was that Steve Rogers had set off a bomb to kill a crowd of first-graders.

Steve had considered making some kind of statement to the press, explaining that it wasn't him and denouncing Crossbones for what he'd done. But then he'd remembered what his mother had taught him when he was just a boy: Talk is cheap, and actions speak louder than words. He could protest all he wanted, but it wouldn't be as convincing as what he did to prove it.

So even though Steve couldn't go back in time to save those children, he did what little he could. He pitched in with the cleanup once the police had gathered what evidence they could. He donated blood (multiple times, since his body replaced it much faster than most) to help the survivors. He laid flowers on the little graves of all the children who had been killed in his name, whispering apologies to the cold stone markers.

Sam joined him as he unobtrusively made his presence felt in town. Sometimes Sam would be at his side, sometimes he would just be a member of the surrounding crowd, but they stayed within sight of each other at all times. They needed to be ready at a moment's notice if Crossbones decided to attack. Of course, Winter couldn't wander around in the open with them, not while wearing a very suspicious-looking mask. But they also couldn't leave him behind if they were gong to keep him safe. Thankfully, this was one area of life that Winter was fully competent in.

“Any sign of him?” Steve muttered under his breath, walking up the drive to the front doors of St. Mary's Hospital for Children.

“Negative,” Winter's voice spoke into his ear. Steve wasn't sure exactly which rooftop he was perched on, but it was comforting to know that friendly eyes were watching his back.

“Sure you don't want me to come with you?” Sam's voice buzzed in his ear next.

Steve glanced over at the hospital cafe, where Sam was sitting at a table and casually watching passersby. “No, there's enough security in the building,” Steve muttered. “I don't think he'd risk it.”

Police stood guard on every floor, even those far away from the survivors of Crossbones' bomb. Steve nodded approvingly as the young man guarding the end of the ward gaped at him, clearly recognizing who he was, but not hesitating to pat him down and check for weapons.

But Steve hadn't brought his shield or even a gun, only a handful of balloons. If Crossbones showed up, Steve would happily fight him bare-handed. He could feel the stares of the nurses as he walked down the ward, but no one stopped him or asked what he was doing there. He wondered if they were afraid to.

The eight survivors had been whittled down to six in the first day after the bombing, as the children succumbed to wounds too grievous for their little bodies. Steve couldn't even imagine how horrible it must have been for their families, to have their hopes raised and then completely crushed.

Steve stepped into the first room, which was already filled with gifts from well-wishers. Balloons, flowers, and get-well-soon cards littered every surface of the room. The little girl in the bed was so covered with bandages it was hard to tell what she looked like. Her parents, sitting on either side of her bed, looked up as he hesitantly stepped into the room.

Suddenly, Steve had no idea what to do or say. What could he possibly say to those who had suffered so much at the hands of someone who claimed to be him? They would be justified if they screamed and told him to get out....

The girl in the bed was awake, and the one eye not covered in bandages widened till it looked like a round coin shining against her dark skin. She raised a trembling hand to point and gasped, “Captain America!”

For a moment, Steve thought she was afraid, but then he saw the overjoyed grin that split her face. He glanced at her parents. But though they looked stunned and her father slowly rose from his chair, they didn't look frightened either as he slowly walked to the foot of the bed. The toddler sitting in the mother's lap sucked his thumb, staring at Steve with wide eyes.

“Hello there,” Steve said gently, smiling at the girl in the bed. “My name's Steve. What's yours?”

“Sylvie,” the girl said shyly.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. What color balloon would you like, Sylvie?”

Sylvie beamed, looking twice as lively as she had a minute ago. “Red!”

“Here you go.” Pulling a red balloon from the cluster in his hand, Steve handed it over. “I'm sorry you have to be here, sweetheart.”

Sylvie lowered her eyes from her balloon and frowned at him in confusion. “Why are you sorry?  _You_ didn't hurt me.”

The innocent faith and trust in this little girl's eyes took Steve's breath away. The possibility had never even entered her mind that he could really have been the one to hurt her and her friends so cruelly. And he realized that probably had a lot to do with how her parents had spoken of the incident.

Sylvie's mother chuckled and smoothed the girl's curly hair as she explained, “He just means he wishes you weren't hurt, baby.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” Sylvie's father said, shaking Steve's hand firmly and grinning almost as broadly as his daughter. “It means a lot to us.”

Steve smiled faintly. “Just doing what I can.”

They didn't hate him for his association with what had happened to their daughter. He walked out of the room feeling as light as the balloons in his hand.

Sam's voice snickered in his ear. “I hope you know you're adorable, Cap.”

“Shut up.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

A week passed, and they heard no more from Crossbones. Perhaps he was trying to find a time when he could attack Steve away from the public eye. Maybe he was waiting for a moment when no one was watching his back, or maybe he was just biding his time till the furor died down and there was less chance Crossbones would get caught. Whatever the reason, Steve was glad he had a chance to make it up to those who had been affected simply by his presence.

Unfortunately, Steve was so busy watching his back and trying to prepare for Crossbones' attack that he never saw the real threat creeping up on him.

Steve, Sam, and Winter were about to head upstairs to bed one night when they heard a distant  _thump_ through the open window. They all froze, then Steve  crossed over to the window and looked out over the treetops. It was hard to make anything out through the thick foliage, but smoke was already curling into the darkening sky.

“Let's go.” Crossbones had made his next move, and Steve could only pray they weren't too late.

But by the time they drove into town and followed the tower of flame to its source, the damage had already been done. Steve stumbled out of the car, his shield dangling uselessly from his hand, and stared in horror at an entire wing of St. Mary's Hospital that simply wasn't there. Jets of water valiantly fought back the fire raging out of the jagged hole where, not too long ago, children had been recovering.

Steve's gut twisted as he tried to picture the layout of the hospital.  _No, surely not...._

But then he saw the spectators who stood behind the barrier, watching the fire in horrified silence or sobbing as if their hearts would break. All the people he had met over the last few days—all the families of the survivors that he had gotten to know.

None of the children were out here with their families. There were no paramedics or nurses tending to those who had made two narrow escapes. Because none of them  _had_ escaped.

Steve's breath was ragged in his throat, gulping down the hot, smoky air in rough gasps. How had he not seen this coming? How had it never occurred to him that Crossbones might try to finish the job, whether Steve was there or not?

It didn't matter that he hadn't set up either of these bombs, nor that he had never worked for Hydra. His mere presence did so much damage that he might as well have been the culprit all along.

Steve started towards the fire, but a hand on his arm held him back. “There's nothing more we can do, Steve,” Sam said sadly. Though Winter still crouched out of sight in the car, Sam had gotten out to stand at Steve's side. “It's already been done.”

But Steve pulled away and walked over to the grieving families. He didn't know what he could possibly say to them, but he couldn't just stand by like he didn't even care.

Sylvie's parents stood closest, so he approached them first. Her mother was sobbing so hard she didn't even look up, just sat on the ground rocking back and forth. Sylvie's father turned haunted eyes toward him. He wasn't crying, but he looked lost—like he was hoping someone would tell him what to do now that Sylvie was dead.

“I'm so sorry,” Steve said, aware even as he spoke them how inadequate his words were. “Is...Is there anything I can do?”

The man swallowed and shook his head. He looked up at Steve, his face filled with pain. No anger, no accusation—just the agony of losing a beloved daughter. “You...You've done enough,” he croaked, then turned away.

Steve staggered back, away from the grieving families. He couldn't stand their pain, not when he knew he had indirectly caused it. Sam touched his arm as they walked back to the car, and pushed him towards the passenger side. Steve opened the door, then paused and looked back at the fire.

Gritting his teeth, he watched the greedy flames devour what remained of the children and hospital staff whose only crime was that they had gotten in between Crossbones and his sick goals. Steve wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or scream with rage.

A groan from the car door warned him he was gripping the metal too tightly. He quickly got in and tried not to slam the door shut. “We're leaving,” he said tightly. “We're not going to let him do this to innocent civilians again.”

“You can say that again,” Sam murmured, already putting the car in gear.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Ever since Sam had first met Steve, he'd worried about him. At first he'd worried because he could see the devastating loneliness eating Steve alive, and he knew what that could do to a person. Then he'd worried that Steve wouldn't make it out of the next fight alive, not when he was trying to save the world _and_ Winter at the same time. While taking care of Winter, Sam had often worried about how Steve was handling the guilt and helplessness of not knowing how to help him best.

But Sam had never worried so much as he did now, as they tried to draw Crossbones out into the open. They moved from town to town, staying just long enough for someone to notice Steve Rogers was in their midst, then moving on before Crossbones could target any of the bystanders to get at Steve. They didn't exactly announce their presence, but the days of lying low in an abandoned cabin were over. They only used enough caution so as not to immediately endanger themselves, but they weren't hiding anymore.

It wasn't just their physical safety that Sam was worried about, though that was certainly high on the list. It might be a tough fight, but he was confident that the three of them could handle whatever Hydra threw their way. (They  _had_ taken down three helicarriers on their own, after all.) No, Sam was much more worried about the cold fury driving Steve harder every day.

Steve was an incredibly patient man, as Sam had seen over and over again in his interactions with Winter. But one thing he had absolutely no patience for was cruelty and oppression. Normally, when he found evidence of it around himself, he would go and stop it. But situations like this, where his opponent was irrational and seemed to prefer targeting those who were completely unrelated, drove him crazy. Sam could see the frustration and futility in every line of his face.

As they moved from place to place as if they were following a roadtrip map drawn by a drunk, Steve grew increasingly tense. Not a nervous, paranoid tension, but a pensive, brooding suspense that descended over them all like a heavy blanket. Sam felt an overwhelming pressure to keep everyone's spirits up, a hard task when neither Steve nor Winter was in the mood for levity.

What really surprised Sam was how calmly Winter was taking this turn of events. After months of living in the same spot, where small changes in temperature freaked him out and they had to hold his hand (sometimes literally) while exposing him to new experiences, Sam would have expected him to be curled in the fetal position, practically comatose. Instead, he seemed to grow accustomed to this new lifestyle rather quickly, and never complained.

Maybe this high-stress, fast-paced trek across the country more closely resembled his previous life than lounging around at their ease. Maybe he was finally comfortable enough in his own skin that he could start venturing into the real world now. Or maybe he just trusted that Steve knew what he was doing, and that he wouldn't knowingly lead them into danger.

Ironically, though Winter seemed less afraid than he'd ever been before, Sam only felt more concerned with every passing hour. Because he could see Steve growing more desperate every day, knowing they couldn't keep this pace up forever, but not knowing what else to do. Sooner or later, Crossbones would grow frustrated and make his move...but what if they couldn't prevent him from hurting innocents when he did?

Unfortunately, Sam got his answer to that question far too soon.

Early one morning, Sam jerked awake as Steve shook his shoulder. Sam blinked groggily at the motel room around them, still dim in the early morning light streaming in through the ugly greyish-green curtains. Sam vaguely remembered checking into this motel the night before, while Steve and Winter hid out of sight in the car. What state were they even in? He couldn't recall....

Sam collapsed back onto the pillows and stretched his arm over his face. “Five more minutes, Cap,” he groaned.

“Crossbones sent me a message.”

That woke Sam up instantly. He sat up and saw that Winter was already awake, sitting on the other bed and lacing up his boots. Sam had been so tired the night before that he hadn't even joked about sharing a bed with Steve. He was surprised he hadn't woken up when Steve did.

“What'd he say?” Sam scrubbed his eyes, which still felt sticky and fogged over with sleep.

Steve wordlessly handed over his phone and rummaged around in his suitcase for some clothes.

“How'd he even get your number...?” Sam opened the text message with no small amount of trepidation.

_Bloomington, CO. June 16_ _th_ _, 7:00 p.m. Make sure you're there. Wouldn't want to miss the fireworks._

“Well, June 16th is in two days, so that gives us plenty of time to get there....” Sam looked up directions to Bloomington. “And it's only a few hours away. But why would he tell us his next target so far in advance?”

“A trap,” Winter muttered, standing up. “He's going to ambush us once we get there.”

“Probably,” Steve agreed, pulling a shirt over his head. “But he also probably doesn't know exactly where we are, so he doesn't know how long it'll take us to get there. One of Natasha's cabins is near Bloomington. We can go there and scope the place out. Maybe this time we can stop him before he even gets started.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Though his insides twisted into a knot as he tried to imagine what Crossbones had up his sleeve this time. Steve took a moment to relax when they stepped inside the cabin later that day. He had to hand it to Natasha—she really knew how to pick her vacation spots.

This cabin was almost as spacious as the first one, though all on one level. A closed-in porch at the back doubled as a dining room with a long table and a stunning view of the Rocky Mountains. The master bedroom stood on one side of the large, open living room, and a hallway lined with more bedrooms stretched out from the other side. Three steps led down to a sort of crater in the middle of the living room floor, where comfortable couches and chairs sat in a half-circle around a stone fireplace.

It was a shame they probably wouldn't be here long enough to enjoy it. They were only going to drop off enough supplies for the night and then drive down to Bloomington to investigate.

Something had been bothering Steve during the whole drive here, and he knew he needed to address it before they left again. He knocked on the open door of the bedroom Winter had chosen and stepped in. Winter looked up from the bags he'd set down at the head of the twin bed that sat under a small window.

“There's something I need to talk to you about,” Steve said, sitting on the foot of the bed.

Winter wordlessly sank down onto the bed next to him, his brow furrowed as he took in Steve's appearance. He could probably read all the underlying emotions Steve was trying not to show.

Steve chose his words carefully, not exactly sure how Winter would react. They'd come a long way since Christmas, when Winter had thrown away what Steve had intended as a kind offer, but there was still so much potential for misunderstanding.

“I'm going into this fight as Captain America,” Steve said slowly. “I'm going to wear my suit, and not hide who I am at all. That means that everyone will know without a doubt that Captain America is here. When all of this is over, there will be a spotlight pointed directly at me and anyone with me. Everyone will want to know what I've been up to, especially after what I did to S.H.I.E.L.D. It will be a lot harder to stay under the radar like we have been.”

Winter's eyes narrowed slightly. “What are you saying?”

“I just need you to understand what's at stake here. This isn't like the school fire, or what happened at the park. One way or another, it all ends here. I would appreciate your help, and I'll do everything I can to keep you safe...but there are no guarantees in a fight like this. If you walk out with me today, you're already standing in the cross hairs.”

He met Winter's eyes steadily and held them. “I want you to understand that if you don't want to do this, it's okay. I won't think any less of you if you want to make sure you can stay safe. I promise. If you want to make a break for it, my fight with Crossbones would make a perfect diversion. The choice is yours.”

For a long minute, Winter stared at his hands in his lap and said nothing. When he finally did speak, his words were slow and thoughtful, but filled with conviction. “If I run now...I'll never be able to stop. I'm tired of running. I'm tired of being afraid. I  _do_ want to be safe, but....” He took a breath and looked up at Steve again. “I want you to be safe too.”

Warmth flooded him from head to foot. “Thanks. It...It means a lot to me.”

Steve squeezed Winter's right shoulder affectionately as he stood again. Everything Winter had done, from the first day they'd met, had been focused on his own safety and comfort. After all the horrible things that had been done to him, that was more than understandable. It was right. It was what he deserved. But now, he was willingly walking into danger, despite being given a way out. Such loyalty and selflessness was humbling and...inspiring.

Steve smiled and went in search of Sam next. He found him in the kitchen putting together a quick meal before they would set out again. When Steve started to give Sam the same speech he'd given Winter, Sam held up a hand to stop him before he'd gotten five words out.

“Look,” Sam said with a grin, “I'm going with you whether you like it or not, so you're just gonna have to deal. And that's all there is to say.”

Steve beamed. He really did have the best friends anyone could ask for. “Thank you.” With two such men at his side, he was confident he could stop Crossbones once and for all.

But though they spent the rest of that day and all of the next in town, keeping their eyes open for likely targets and suspicious activity, there was no way of knowing where Crossbones would strike. Steve just hoped Crossbones hadn't lured them  _away_ from his true target.

They woke early on the morning of the 16 th , ready for a last-ditch effort to figure out where Crossbones would attack. For the first time since their assault on the helicarriers in September, Steve pulled out his Captain America suit. It was a little rumpled from being left in the bottom of a suitcase for so long, but it was as sturdy as ever. As he touched the rough cloth and breathed in a smell that no amount of sitting in a museum could dispel, Steve could almost believe he was back in the war.

He was still fighting the same war, wasn't he? Crossbones was just another Hydra villain he had to stop before the death toll climbed any higher. Steve was determined that this would be the last time Crossbones threatened anyone. And whatever he was cooking up, it would be important for everyone to know that Captain America was there, opposing him.

As he shook out the folds of cloth, something heavy fell out and landed with a clunk on the floor. He looked down in surprise and saw that it was one of the knives Winter had given him—the second-largest, which seemed to be Winter's favorite. It was the one he'd stolen back more often than any of the others. The one he'd given Steve that night he had stopped cutting for good. Steve remembered hiding it in the folds of his suit, hoping Winter would never think to look there. He was glad he hadn't had to find out if he was right or not.

Steve picked up the sheathed knife, weighing it in his hand. Then he nodded, tossed aside his suit, and headed for Winter's room.

Winter was checking over his guns one last time, making sure they were all loaded and holstered properly. Though they had thrown away his old clothes long ago, he looked more like the Winter Soldier than he had for months. He was decked out in weaponry, and his fingerless gloves and mask made him look even more threatening. He looked up when Steve entered the room and immediately froze, staring at the knife in Steve's hand. They both knew what this knife had done, what a stumbling block it had been on Winter's path to healing.

But Steve held the knife out, handle first, to Winter. “I hope you won't need to use this,” he said, “but I'd feel so much better if you had something for close combat.”

Winter's gaze traveled from the knife to Steve's face, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Slowly, he raised his hand till his fingers hovered over the handle. He hesitated, as if afraid it would electrocute him, then gingerly closed his fingers around it. When nothing dreadful happened, he took the knife and slid it into place on his belt.

Steve turned to leave and put on his uniform, but then Winter said earnestly, “I...I won't let you down.”

He stopped and looked over his shoulder, hoping the smile he gave Winter was reassuring. “Don't even worry about that, Winter. It would be impossible.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_He will cover you with his pinions, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness is a shield and buckler._

_..._

“ _Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him; I will protect him, because he knows my name.  
When he calls to me, I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will rescue him and honor him.”_

_Psalm 91:4, 14-16_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are ramping up now, aren't they? ;) This is the part of the story I like to call The Roadtrip of Brotherly Awesomeness. Originally, it was going to span a much larger portion of the story—they were going to be constantly moving around from cabin to cabin during the main part of the story, avoiding Hydra while helping Winter heal. But after looking at things more closely, I realized Winter really needed a more stable environment in the beginning, or he would never grow to trust and depend on Steve and Sam the way he does by now. So while a small part of me regrets that we spend less time roadtripping with them, I have to acknowledge that it just makes a lot more sense for it to happen at this point in the story instead, and for it to take less time than my original vision. After all, Crossbones would get impatient sooner than later. And this way, Winter can make the choice to follow Steve freely, rather than just tagging along because it's his best chance for survival.


	13. Inferno

_We were just like brothers_  
_And we had each other_  
_We were down for the good times_  
_We were there for the troubles_  
_Like a thief in the night_  
_Broad daylight_  
_You stole my sanity_  
_Now you are the enemy_  
  
_..._  
  
_The only thing worse than a hater_  
_Is a traitor, a traitor, a traitor_  
_You put the knife right in my back_  
_Killed any history we had_  
_And now it's war_  
_\- “Traitor” by Daughtry_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They were already heading for the car when Crossbones' next text came in.

_Did I say 7:00 p.m.? Sorry, I meant a.m. Hope you don't miss the show, it's to die for._

“What, is he a comedian now?” Sam grumbled as Steve showed the others the photo Crossbones had sent.

When he tapped on the attached image and enlarged the picture to get a better look at the cluster of buildings it showed, Steve felt a pit of dread opening in his stomach.

“Cap...” Sam said slowly, “this is a military base.”

Instead of replying, Steve hurried into the driver's seat of the car, hardly even waiting long enough for the others to clamber inside before racing out of the driveway. Sam was already looking up the military base on his phone, so there was no need for discussion.

Blinding rage and desperate guilt had filled Steve's heart, festering behind a stoic veneer, for so long that he was surprised at how calm he felt now that he knew exactly when and where Crossbones would strike. It was like a distracting buzz in his ears had finally fallen silent and he could focus at last. There was no more confusion. The target was in his sights, and all he had to do now was pull the trigger.

Crossbones had to be either extremely overconfident or flat-out insane. Well, they already knew he was insane, but this plan of his...it was suicide. It was one thing to set fire to a small-town elementary school. It was another to blow up a public park in broad daylight, and then attack the victims' hospital while everyone was on high alert. But to attack a military base? Steve didn't care how much backup Crossbones had; there was no way he would get out of there alive. Not unless he had some kind of superhuman ability, and Winter had assured them he didn't.

As Steve drove, following Sam's directions, he tried to figure out what the catch was. Surely, Crossbones' goal was to kill him, so why try to get Steve's attention in such a dangerous way? Why warn them ahead of time, rather than letting them stumble upon the scene after the catastrophe was already underway, like he had every other time? Did he not care about living to tell the tale? Was he going to bring a building down on both of their heads at once, after he'd lured Steve onto the base?

Steve hadn't really considered how they were going to get in without raising the suspicion of everyone they met.  _Hi, we really need to get inside your secure base. No, we don't have IDs. Yes, those are indeed loaded guns we're carrying in with us. Oh, and by the way, the guy in the backseat is a highly trained operative with a metal arm and a mask that makes him look like a terrorist. We have an appointment with a Hydra agent who may or may not be here, and we're trying to stop him from doing...something. Somewhere in here. Probably. We'll have to get back to you on that._

Steve's phone buzzed, and he fished it out of his pocket to find a new text message from Crossbones. He handed the phone to Sam so he could keep driving.

“'Run run run as fast as you can,'” Sam read, then paused as the phone buzzed again. “Another picture. It's...it looks like the guard house...the _back_ of the guard house.” He swore and looked up. “He's in the base now.”

Steve floored the accelerator, but he wasn't sure they'd get there in time. He glanced at the clock. At least it was early enough that there weren't too many people on the road.

As they drove, Crossbones kept sending texts, making Steve's phone buzz every few minutes. Sam read the messages and described photos of various locations inside the base.  The time of Crossbones' attack grew closer and closer. They wouldn't make it.

And Crossbones kept on gleefully pointing that out. “'Tick-tock, time's a-wasting....'” Then Sam pulled up the next picture and swore loudly. “He has hostages, Cap. Really young ones. Looks like new recruits.”

Each new taunt was like a punch in the stomach. Crossbones knew exactly how to torment Steve before he'd even got to the scene of the crime. But thankfully, they soon arrived at the base. As they drew closer, Steve noted the plume of smoke rising in the air. The attack had already begun.

Steve had worried about how they would get into the base when they had no official reason for being there, but in the end it was surprisingly simple. The guards stopped them at the gate, but as soon as Steve rolled his window down and grabbed the shield that Sam handed him, the man's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

“Steve Rogers,” he said, beginning to introduce himself.

Before he could say anything more, the guard signaled to someone and the gate began to open. “Yes sir! Please go right in, sir!”

The entire base was in chaos. Men rushed this way and that, scrambling to respond to several fires already raging at various points. Crossbones and his men had obviously known exactly where to strike, and had done so quickly and efficiently. No one would know what they were up against, or where the next attack would be coming from.

But Crossbones was helpfully supplying them with photo after photo that led them on the path he wanted them to follow. Steve noticed they were heading to a part of the base that was completely deserted, as everyone dealt with the explosions in the distance. If it had just been Crossbones they were after, Steve might have turned around and gone back rather than follow these directions when it was so obviously leading to an ambush. But Crossbones peppered them with photos of the hostages he'd taken. Steve wasn't looking at the pictures, but every time Sam told him Crossbones had sent another, Steve felt a jolt in his stomach.

Even if they were playing right into Crossbones' hands, he couldn't turn back. Not while there were lives hanging in the balance. Crossbones knew him far too well.

Finally, Sam spotted the building depicted in Crossbones' last message. The SUV's engine revved loudly down the street before Steve slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt in the driveway with a massive jerk. Winter hopped out of the car first, eyeing their surroundings warily. The others followed suit, keeping the doors open and using them for cover as they eyed their surroundings warily, waiting for the inevitable ambush. The military vehicles parked out front were all damaged and smashed, and a glimpse through the garage doors burst wide open told them this was some kind of workshop. No one was in sight, and other than the distant noise of alarms and gunfire, there was no sound.

Shield at the ready, Steve slowly led the way inside with Sam and Winter following him in a straight line. They moved smoothly with practiced, silent steps, a cohesive force ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Steve paused on the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the relative gloom inside the building and scan critically for any sign of what might be awaiting them.

The first thing he saw was a body. The body of a young man—couldn't have been more than a year out of high school—lying on his side, doubled up and still, in a puddle of his own blood. His glazed eyes stared up at Steve, as if asking him why he was lying on a cold concrete floor instead of his bed where he belonged.

“We have a soldier down,” Steve whispered to the others as he stepped through. Skilled fingers against the young soldier's throat detected what he already feared: no pulse.

Sam was already kneeling behind him to check for other signs of life, but even as he did so Steve lifted his gaze and found another body not five feet away in the rubble of the smashed doors. And then another. And another. Bodies sprawled in a grisly trail across the floor as if left there by some macabre Hansel and Gretel to mark the path.

The path that trailed through the garage and to a secure door that had been blasted off its hinges.

The path Crossbones gave them no chance to miss.

A man stood with one foot on the chest of the last of the hostages, calmly leaning against the door frame as if they'd agreed to meet over coffee. His body armor made him little more than a menacing silhouette against the pale morning light streaming in through the door, with a helmet that obscured his features from recognition. But there was a large, white X painted on the visor, and it was all the introduction anyone needed. Another man stood next to him, full body armor also leaving his identity a mystery, rifle still trained on the last soldier he'd killed. Only a white skull painted on his helmet gave him away.

Steve rose back to his full height, flanked now on either side by Sam and Winter. He could see the barrels of their guns in the corners of his field of vision, but enraged as they all were, they held back from immediate retaliation only because Steve hadn't given the command yet.

“Don't look at me like that, Cap,” the man with the white X said in a raspy voice. “I never said I wouldn't hurt them.”

There was something familiar about Crossbones' voice, but blood was pounding so hard in Steve's ears that he couldn't think straight. “Tell me why.”

Crossbones shrugged. “I didn't need them anymore, and they would've just gotten in the way. But at least they brought you and your little friends here in a hurry.”

He nodded slightly to Winter, a sneer plainly audible in his voice. “Long time no see,  _Soldier._ Gotta admit, I was surprised when I saw you'd survived. And the company you keep these days!” He laughed mockingly. “Tell me, Soldier—did it break your poor Captain's heart when you showed him your face?”

Winter jerked backward as if he'd been struck, lowering his weapon. His eyes were wide and terrified over the mask as they darted between Steve and Crossbones.

Steve glanced between them, confused by this distraction.  _Break my heart...?_ he wondered.  _Why would his face break my heart? Is it terribly deformed?_

But there was no time to puzzle over Crossbones' words, because he was hooting with laughter.

“You mean you haven't _shown_ him?” he cackled. “You've spent all this time with him, and he doesn't even _know?_ ” He slapped his knee as if this were the best joke he'd heard all year. “So _trusting_ and _oblivious,_ ” he said, pretending to wipe away a tear of mirth. “That's the Steve Rogers I know.”

Steve gritted his teeth. “What makes you think you know anything about me?”

Crossbones chuckled and, instead of replying, pulled off his helmet and tossed it aside. His face was a twisted mess of burn scars that curled his lips into a permanent smirk and nearly melted one of his ears. But even so, there was no mistaking that face.

“ _Rumlow?_ ” he gasped. He wasn't surprised that Rumlow was working for Hydra—he'd gotten that story months ago. And it was surprising—insane, really—that Rumlow had somehow survived the assault on the helicarriers. But more than anything...he couldn't process that Rumlow was Crossbones. _Rumlow._ Rumlow? A man he had worked with, laughed with, fought with...someone he had _trusted..._ had somehow managed to conceal that he was a psychopath capable of gleefully killing dozens of innocent people and ruining the lives of hundreds more just to get Steve's attention.

Rumlow, misinterpreting Steve's look of revulsion and dawning horror, ran a hand over the scars that turned his face into a craggy wasteland. “I think I look pretty good, all things considered.”

“How did you survive?” Sam demanded. “The whole building was falling apart! _I_ barely got out alive!”

“You're not the only ones who can make miraculous escapes,” Rumlow said smugly. “And Hydra was _very_ interested in keeping me alive. They were fresh out of supersoldier serum, but there's always alternatives. Let's just say that this time, you'll have to do better than dropping a building on my face.”

Rumlow stood there grinning, his eyes glittering maliciously in his ruined face. He was drunk on the elation. And the longer Steve looked at this man, the more anger drained out of his heart, filtered by the horror and leaving only a crushing sadness. Rumlow could have been the man he'd pretended to be—a capable, confident leader dedicated to the people he served and the ideals they fought for. Instead, he had chosen this path of destruction and cruelty.

“I'd rather not kill you at all,” Steve said, voice astonishingly even. “You don't have to follow Hydra's orders, Rumlow. If you would just stop this senseless killing—“

But Rumlow cut him off with a harsh bark of laughter that rang around the enormous room. “Listen to yourself!” he cried. “Are you actually trying to make  _me_ switch sides? People don't change, Cap! Not really. The real you will always come out sooner or later. And you've barely experienced the real me.”

“You're wrong,” Steve said firmly. “People _can_ change. I've been living with the perfect example of that for the better part of a year. Just look at how much Winter has grown. He made the _choice_ to change for the better.”

Rumlow turned his malicious grin in Winter's direction. “What do  _you_ think, 'Winter'? Think you've changed? Think you're any different from the way you used to be?” He snorted. “You can use a different name and pretend all you want, but at the end of the day there will always be something pulling you right back to who you've always been.”

Winter glanced nervously at Steve, a slight twitch of his head as if trying to see if he believed this too. Steve frowned, not sure where this conversation was going, but not liking it one bit.

Rumlow's grin widened like a jackal waiting to pounce on his prey. “Once I discovered  _you_ were still around,” he said to Winter, “I just  _had_ to share the news. So I looked up an old friend of yours. He had some  _verrry_ interesting things to say. Wouldn't you like to hear them?”

Rumlow pulled out some kind of remote and pressed a button. A voice thundered out of the intercom system.  “ желание .”

From the first word, Winter grew rigid, his eyes widening in terror.

“ ржавый .”

“No...” he gasped, his chest heaving as a sure sign of impending panic.

But the inexorable voice continued.  “семнадцать. рассвет.”

“No...s-stop....”

“печь. девять.”

“Winter...?” Steve asked uncertainly, not sure what terrified Winter so much about this voice speaking in a dialect that reminded Steve of German. German? No, that couldn't be right. The words and the accent were wrong. 

“добросердечный. ”

Suddenly Winter dropped his gun and fell to his knees, screaming and pressing his hands against his ears, desperate to drown out the cryptic voice. Steve didn't know what was going on or what the voice was saying, but he'd had enough. He tossed his shield at the nearest loudspeaker, but though it dented in and crackled to silence, the voice still echoed around the room from countless others.

“возвращение на родину. ”

Catching the shield as it bounced back in his direction, Steve yelled over Winter's screams, “Turn it off! Stop it,  _now!_ ”

“ один . ”

Winter's scream choked short.

Rumlow's smile widened. “As you wish.”

“грузовой вагон.”

The voice on the loudspeaker paused, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

“Winter?” Steve said tentatively, but he got no response.

Suddenly, the voice on the loudspeaker switched to English. “Hello again,  _Soldier._ ”

In one slow and graceful movement, Winter picked up his gun and pushed himself to his feet again. When he spoke, his voice was a low, gravelly mutter Steve never wanted to hear again. “Ready to comply.”

“I have a new mission for you to complete without delay,” the voice said. “Kill Captain America.”

Winter turned, but his familiar eyes had been replaced by a cold, calculating look Steve had not seen since the first day they met. It felt like the floor was dropping away beneath him.

Steve had hardly a moment to orient before Winter hefted his gun back to his shoulder and started shooting. Breathless and barely getting the shield up in time to protect himself from the initial volley of bullets, Steve quickly dodged backwards in an attempt to put some distance between them.

“Winter!”

Beyond the reach of his voice, the Winter Soldier followed the steps of his retreat.

“Don't worry, I got Skull!” Sam shouted—breaking formation, snapping his wings out, and zooming to the other side of the warehouse where Skull had reloaded and stood waiting for him.

Steve found himself caught between the Winter Soldier and Rumlow, both of whom were taking a sudden collaborative offense that left him with few options beyond retreat and evasion. While Steve focused on blocking the Soldier's bullets with his shield and dodging behind a smashed truck, Rumlow ran up from the side. His body armor had some kind of hydraulic apparatus built into both arms, allowing him to punch Steve with such force that the blow—which Steve could only partially block with the shield—knocked the supersoldier off his feet and onto his back, skidding across the floor.

But he had no time to catch his breath or even register the deep pain blossoming on his side. He rolled to the left, narrowly missing the Soldier's bullets, and headed right back into Rumlow's path. But when Rumlow tried to punch him again, Steve grabbed the metal encasing Rumlow's arm and kicked him in the chest as hard as he could with both feet. The metal apparatus remained in Steve's hand while Rumlow went flying, landing across the room at the base of a stack of tires that crashed down around him.

Steve tossed the apparatus aside and flipped back onto his feet. Only luck saved him from the Soldier's next bullet; it pinged off his shield even as he turned. Then he charged straight at the Soldier, both arms wrapped up in the shield's straps, knowing he would have to get in close if he hoped to snap Winter out of this state.

The Soldier betrayed no sign of surprise or alarm. He discarded his gun with its now empty barrel and pulled out a knife—the very knife Steve had returned to him earlier that morning.

“Winter!” Steve gasped, catching the knife on his shield and trying to land a punch with his other hand. But the Soldier matched his effort, blocking hit for hit with his metal arm. “Snap out of it!”

“Don't you know how brainwashing works, Cap?” The sneering voice warned Steve just in time. He managed to smash the shield into the Soldier's face, disorienting him, and threw himself to the side. The enhanced punch Rumlow had prepared for him hit the Soldier's metal arm instead, sending him sliding across the room.

“This is what I always hated about you!” Rumlow snarled, this time landing a punch on Steve's shield. The impact jarred his arm painfully all the way up to his shoulder. “You're always trying to _change_ things!”

A knife blade popped out the end of his fist, which he used to swipe at Steve's face. “Messing—up—the— _order!_ ”

Steve dodged and ducked each blow, trying to keep his shield pointed towards the Soldier, just in case.

“Oh, I've been _waiting_ for this!” Rumlow grabbed Steve's shield with his free hand and pulled his other arm back, ready to plunge the blade into Steve's stomach.

Sam came flying in out of nowhere, slamming his feet against Rumlow's shoulders and pitching him backward. Rumlow's fingers slipped off the shield as he staggered to the side, trying not to fall over. The sudden yank on Steve's left arm was painful, and he could feel the straps scraping against his forearm through his sleeve.

With a roar of rage, Rumlow left him to attack Sam instead. Now evenly matched, Steve hastily righted the shield and jumped onto the hood of another truck, needing the temporary advantage of higher ground. From a brief glance to the other side of the warehouse, he spotted Skull's body sprawled in the doorway. One less thing to worry about.

But he still had to face the Winter Soldier.

Steve leapt from the truck hood towards the Soldier, gripping the straps of the shield as tightly as he could, and hit the ground close enough to push the Soldier momentarily back into the defensive. It was a violent dance of metal and fists. Steve tried repeatedly to slam his shield into the side of the Soldier's head, to jostle Winter free or at least knock him out. But the Soldier always blocked the shield with his metal arm.

Steve discovered it was much harder to fight the Winter Soldier than it had been when they'd first met. Before, he had been fighting a stranger—one he sympathized with and wanted desperately to save, but it wasn't personal then. Now he was fighting one of the best friends he'd ever had, someone he'd gotten to know so well over the last several months. But there was no trace of his friend left in the Winter Soldier's single-minded violence. He could see Winter's mannerisms in the way the Soldier moved, but the actions had been reduced to a basic killing instinct. Though Steve could interpret the minute, uncontrolled expressions that flashed around the Soldier's eyes and forehead in pain, he could not reach through the barrier that had been thrown up between them.

Then the Soldier grabbed the sharp edge of the shield with his metal arm, and wrenched it to one side. Steve's arm snapped around with a blinding burst of pain and an awful popping sensation. His grip failed him and the shield hit the ground, his left arm sagging uselessly at his side.

“Fight it, Winter!” he gasped, blinking away the pain and dodging out of range of the Soldier's knife. Every movement increased the agony exponentially. He blocked the Soldier's next attack with his uninjured forearm and tried to kick his legs out from under him, but the Soldier leapt back. “This isn't you!”

Steve looked pleadingly into the Soldier's blank, emotionless eyes—so different from the eyes of his friend, always swimming with more emotions than he could count. “Remember! I'm your friend!”

The Soldier charged him, coming in low and stabbing his knife directly towards Steve's heart. Steve tried to knock the knife aside, but he was too slow. The serum was many amazing things, but it fell short of making him impervious. He was made of flesh and blood just like anyone else. The long blade slipped under his leather harness, through his uniform, and sank deep into his chest.

Pain exploded across his senses. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't _breathe._

Steve's knees slowly gave out, held in suspension for a few moments before the Soldier released his grip on the knife and let him drop. Chest burning and heaving in a last-ditch effort for air, Steve stared despairingly into the Winter Soldier's eyes as he fell.

They bore no trace of anger or triumph or remorse. Once soulful blue eyes were now as flat and cold as the concrete floor beneath him.

Winter was missing from the Soldier's gaze.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 _Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings,_  
_from the wicked who do me violence, my deadly enemies who surround me._  
_They close their hearts to pity; with their mouths they speak arrogantly._  
_They have now surrounded our steps; they set their eyes to cast us to the ground._  
_He is like a lion eager to tear, as a young lion lurking in ambush._

_\- Psalm 17:8-12_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had lots of fun writing this battle—even though battles are probably the one thing I find hardest to write. Having a villain like Crossbones is really handy, because he's just so _nasty._ You can really go all out. I also enjoyed pulling in moments and lines from the Crossbones battle in Civil War and repurposing them here.
> 
> And of course I had to play around with the Words and the return of the Winter Soldier. The movies give us a lot of hints and oblique references to how Hydra keeps him in check, but we don't have a lot of precise details, and there are a lot of questions and potential contradictions that will probably never get resolved. (For example, Pierce says “prep him” when he realizes that Bucky is starting to remember, but the technician says, “He's been out of cryofreeze too long,” which apparently necessitates zapping him in the chair. But then in Civil War, it looks like they bring him out of cryofreeze and then immediately torture him. So does it matter how long he's been out of cryofreeze or not?) But I've done my best to figure out how it works based on what information we've been given.
> 
> Of particular note for this chapter is the Words, which (based on the painstaking care Zemo uses to learn them) apparently need to be spoken in Russian. Since I know only three words in Russian (well...besides mimicking the Words, I guess :P), and can't read Cyrillic, I had to just cut-and-paste from Google. If anyone here knows Russian, I'd appreciate a proofreader for that part. Anyway, after observing the few instances we have of someone using the Words on the Winter Soldier, it looks like after you say the Words in Russian, you then have to say something with the word “soldier,” which then triggers the conditioned response, “Ready to comply.” We only ever hear this exchange in Russian, but since it's obvious that the Winter Soldier knows many languages, my thinking is that he responds in whatever language you address him in after speaking the Words. And there's probably something in his brainwashing that conditions him to only obey the orders of the person who says the Words; otherwise, he might follow the wrong orders. I'm probably overthinking things, but I want this development to be as plausible as possible, rather than just a source of convenient drama.
> 
> One last note. Steve's goodness and purity of heart continually surprise me, even after all this time. I was perfectly comfortable with hating Rumlow's guts by this point, after all the terrible things he's done in TWS and this story, and his smiling two-faced hypocrisy. I contentedly wrote Steve's righteous anger towards Crossbones...but then out of nowhere, he started to _pity_ him. To see past the terrible things he's done, and see the good man he _could_ be, if he'd only made the right choices. Because of _course_ Steve sees the potential in a Hydra agent with blood on his hands. He's a greater person than I could ever be.


	14. Taking a Stand

_Even if they come for us_  
_Everything can turn to dust_  
_You and I are never going down_  
  
_The bullets and the bombs of love_  
_Go ahead and fire at us_  
_We will never give it up_  
  
_We're not gonna fall now_  
_We're not gonna bleed out_  
_Never gonna break down, no_

_\- “We're Not Gonna Fall” by Daughtry_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“You're out of your depth, kid!” Crossbones jeered.

Sam might have been annoyed at being called a 'kid' by a man who couldn't be more than a few years older than him, but he was too busy trying to stay alive. This task was made more difficult by trying to keep Crossbones focused on him rather than on Steve. He had no breath to return any of Crossbones' insults; it was all he could do to dodge the knife and try to get in a few hits of his own.

He was infinitely grateful when several men appeared in the doorway of the warehouse, armed to the teeth and yelling at Crossbones to drop his weapons. With a snarl, Crossbones shoved Sam aside and beat a hasty retreat, not seeming to care that bullets whizzed past him on either side and pinged against his body armor.

As soon as Crossbones began to run, Sam whipped out his wings and soared across the room to where Steve and the Winter Soldier were fighting. He lashed out one foot at the Soldier's head, and the man fell to the floor immediately. Sam grabbed a chain lying on the floor nearby and hastily wound it around the Soldier, pinning his arms against his sides. It probably wouldn't hold him for long, and hopefully he would be back to normal the next time he woke up, but they couldn't be too careful.

Then Sam turned around, only to discover that Steve was flat on his back, clutching a bloody wound in his chest and gasping desperately as if someone invisible were throttling him.

“Steve!” Sam knelt by his side and felt for his pulse. Steve's heart was racing out of control as he struggled to breathe. Sam looked at the stab wound, then pressed his ear to Steve's chest to confirm his growing suspicion.

He couldn't hear Steve's gasping breaths on the left side of his chest. His lung had collapsed.

Sam glanced up when he saw one of the soldiers approaching with an almost reverent look on his face, carefully carrying the shield. “First-aid kit!” Sam barked at him, grabbing Winter's knife from the floor nearby and using it to cut open Steve's uniform. “Hurry!”

Thankfully, it didn't take long for the soldier to fetch the first-aid kit from a nearby shelf. Sam grabbed a needle and quickly inserted it in Steve's chest, letting out the trapped air and then closing a valve so no more could get in. Steve drew in a deep, relieved breath as his lung fully expanded again.

As Sam quickly dressed the wound, Steve opened his eyes and tried to crane his head around. “Winter...?”

“He's down for the count,” Sam said, finishing up what required immediate attention. “But don't worry, he'll be fine.”

Steve nodded and lay still again, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face.

Sam sat back on his heels, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist as he looked around. Several of the soldiers were examining the bodies of Crossbones' hostages, vainly searching for any who might have miraculously survived. A few more kept an eye out to make sure Crossbones didn't return, while the man who had brought Steve's shield over just stood gawking. Probably stunned that his hero could actually bleed.

“He needs medical attention,” Sam said, wiping blood off his hands as best he could with a scrap of Steve's uniform.

“The infirmary's in flames,” the man said uncertainly. “That was one of the first places they hit....”

Sam swore under his breath. The problem with Crossbones was that he didn't care how much collateral damage got left in the wake of his personal vendetta against Steve.

“Okay,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “Help me get these two to the car. I'll get them to safety.”

The soldiers looked a little reluctant to carry a masked man with a metal arm who was currently chained up like a criminal, but at a weak murmur from Steve, they deposited Winter in the front passenger seat, his head lolling onto his chest. They laid Steve out on the back seat, where Sam made him as comfortable as he could before getting behind the wheel.

Sam hated to leave the base when it was in such turmoil. He could see several buildings still burning in the distance, and he had no idea if Crossbones' men were still fighting, or if they were dead or captured. But he knew that Crossbones would be back, and Steve was in no shape to fight him off again. And there was no telling when Winter would wake up, or what state he would be in once he did.

As he drove back to the cabin, trying to draw as little attention as possible and keeping an eye out to make sure they weren't being followed, Sam knew they couldn't go to the hospital as he would like. Crossbones probably had eyes on every emergency room in a fifty-mile radius, ready to descend upon his helpless victims as soon as they came into the open. They were on their own.

The difficulty, Sam realized as he pulled into the secluded driveway of their cabin, was that the only uninjured member of their party was also the weakest. If Steve or Winter had been the one behind the wheel, it would have been a cinch to carry them and all their belongings inside. But for Sam, it was much more of a struggle. Steve helped as much as he could, but Sam didn't want him walking around even if he was able to.

In the end, he managed to get Steve inside and lying flat on his back on the dining table on the back porch. Sam straightened with a groan, spine popping, and swore when he saw blood seeping through the bandage on Steve's chest. He stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a hand towel, then held it against the bandage and pressed Steve's good hand against it.

“Keep pressure on it,” Sam panted. “Gotta get Winter....”

Winter was still out cold when Sam went to fetch him. The only open wound he'd sustained was the cut on his forehead from where Sam had kicked him, and it was already clotting, so Sam didn't have to be quite so careful with him. He slung Winter over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and staggered inside, but he only made it over the threshold before he had to drop Winter's dead weight to the floor.

Sam bent over, hands resting on his knees, as he tried to catch his breath. If Winter had been awake, and Sam hadn't been so winded, he might have made a lame joke about putting Winter on a diet. He wanted to see that exasperated, bewildered furrow in Winter's forehead that meant he was trying to figure out if Sam was joking or not. Instead, all he could see on Winter's forehead was a smear of blood.

He was tempted to just leave Winter by the door, but he wanted to be there the instant Winter woke up. So Sam ignored his muscles' screams of protest and grabbed Winter under the arms, dragging him across the room. He propped Winter against a wooden pillar supporting the living room's high ceiling, then wrapped one end of the chain around it to hold him in place.

Finally, Sam retrieved the knife, guns, and shield he'd picked up off the floor of the warehouse. He left them and his wings on the kitchen counter, where he would be able to reach them before Winter, just in case. He grabbed the first-aid kit before returning to Steve's side at last.

Silent minutes ticked by as Sam tended more thoroughly to Steve's wounds. Steve was pale and weak, and he passed out when Sam popped his dislocated shoulder back into place, but Sam wasn't too worried. Time and rest were all Steve needed to heal. He just hoped they'd managed to shake off Crossbones long enough to recover, because they wouldn't last long without Steve.

He was fashioning a makeshift sling for Steve's arm when he heard a groan and a clinking of the chain. Steve's eyes popped open immediately, and Sam left his side to cautiously approach Winter.

Winter blinked blearily down at the chains binding him, then shook his head as if to clear it. He looked up at Sam warily. “What did I do?”

His voice was raspy with disuse, but had none of the dead, flat quality that had chilled Sam to the bone earlier. He stopped just out of range of Winter's feet and looked down at him, wondering what it must be like to wake up wondering what horrible crimes you'd been forced to commit. “Enough,” he said quietly.

Winter's gaze traveled over Sam's shoulder and rested on Steve lying on the table. Sam glanced over his shoulder and saw Steve waving feebly. Winter's head clunked against the pillar behind him. “I  _knew_ this would happen,” he muttered.

Sam stepped forward and dabbed at Winter's cut with an alcohol swab, but Winter jerked back as far as he could.

“Don't be stupid!” he snarled. “How-How do you know that I'm not...?”

Sam calmly continued to clean the cut on Winter's forehead. It was messy, but not very deep. “The Winter Soldier wouldn't be worried about me or Steve,” he said simply. “Besides, I need your help to move him to the couch, so I think I'll take my chances.”

Winter looked like he wanted to protest as Sam untangled the chain around him. He shied away from the hand Sam offered him, pushing himself to his feet using the pillar instead. Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye as they walked out onto the porch. Though his movements were a little stiff at first, Winter didn't seem to be dizzy or disoriented, so Sam hoped he would walk away from the battle without lasting harm.

What with the mask covering the lower half of his face and his hair shadowing the rest of it, Winter's expression was impossible to make out as they stood over Steve. But Sam didn't like the slump of Winter's shoulders, so he said briskly, “Okay, you grab his feet and I'll get his head.”

Together, Sam and Winter carefully lifted Steve off the table and carried him into the living room, where they settled him on one of the couches near the fireplace. Sam put a cushion under Steve's head, draped a blanket over his bare chest, and sent Winter to fetch some water and painkillers.

“Thanks,” Steve breathed, sinking back into the pillows after Sam had helped him gulp down the pills. His eyelids were drooping, but he briefly looked at both of them standing over him and smiled slightly. “Okay,” he said vaguely, and his eyes closed in sleep.

Sam dearly wanted to follow suit, but knew he needed to stay alert and keep watch. So he took a quick shower and cobbled together a meal that he forced them all to eat a little of, though none of them felt much like eating. After letting a little more air out of Steve's chest, Sam sat down for the first time all day.

He blinked, and then he was out like a light.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

When Sam woke up, night had fallen and darkness pressed against the windows. Someone had turned on a few lamps, filling the room with a warm, soft glow. Steve was fast asleep on the couch, and all was quiet.

Sam slowly sat up in his armchair, every joint in his body popping as he stretched his aching muscles. He yawned and pushed himself to his feet with a soft groan. Then he realized Winter wasn't in the room. He should have been keeping watch over his sleeping companions, or at least lying passed out on a couch. But he was gone.

A sudden spike of fear stabbed through him. What if Winter was  _gone_ gone? For good? Sam would never forgive himself if he'd let that happen just because he'd fallen asleep.  _Steve_ would never forgive him.

He hurried to the front door, stopping himself just in time to peek out the window first and check the front yard for intruders. He could see nothing but the dark branches of the trees surrounding the cabin, so he opened the door and walked out into the cool night air.

Relief surged through him when he saw that the car was still there. As he approached, he saw Winter standing next to the motorcycle, strapping down a backpack behind the seat. He hadn't left yet, but if Sam had woken up just five minutes later....

Sam leaned against the hood of the car as casually as he could. “Never pegged you as the type to run away.”

Winter started and reached for the pistol holstered on his thigh before he saw who it was. With a huff, he picked up the helmet from where it rested on the handlebars. “I'm not running away,” he muttered.

“Oh, do you prefer 'sneaking off in the middle of the night without even saying goodbye'?”

Winter put the helmet down again and glared at Sam. “It's the only way. I'm a danger to both of you as long as I've still got Hydra in here.” He tapped his head with a metal finger, then stared down at his feet. “I'm just...trying to protect you.”

“And what happens when Crossbones comes back?” Sam demanded. “Because he _will_ be back, I can guarantee you. He won't stop until Steve is cold in his grave.”

“Then I'll draw him away from you,” Winter said, looking up with an almost desperate gleam in his eyes. “I'll make sure he follows me far away, until you can escape.”

“As soon as he realizes we're not with you,” Sam pointed out, “he'll turn right around and come after Steve again. And I can't fight him on my own, Winter. I need your help. _Steve_ needs your help.”

“Shut up,” Winter said tensely, not even looking at him.

“Look, you can't just—“

“No, _shh!_ ” Winter hissed, staring intently at the side of the building.

Sam listened carefully and peered into the shadows, but he couldn't see or hear anything other than the rustle of the trees in the night air. But Winter pulled his gun out and, holding it at the ready, inched toward the corner of the cabin. Sam crouched down and quietly followed, silently cursing himself for not thinking to grab a weapon before going outside. He'd been too preoccupied with finding Winter.

At first, the front of the cabin looked completely normal. But then Sam noticed that the front door was shut, and he was certain he'd left it open. Sam's heart pounded as he stared at it. Someone had closed that door, and it didn't take a genius to guess who.

Winter glanced over his shoulder at Sam. “Kitchen window,” he whispered, handing the gun over. “You distract him.”

Sam nodded as Winter crept around the side of the building, keeping low and moving with the swift ease of long practice. He soon melted into the shadows as he moved around to the back, where the kitchen was.

Sam, on the other hand, burst though the front door as loudly as he could without actually knocking it off its hinges. He caught a quick look at Rumlow, bending over Steve's couch with a knife in his hand, before he fired three times in quick succession. In the dim light, one bullet flew over Rumlow's shoulder, but the other two hit—becoming deeply embedded in the side of what had to be a bulletproof vest. Slowly, he turned to face Sam, the lamplight casting sinister shadows across his twisted face. He raised the knife slightly, letting the light shimmer on the red-smeared blade.

The bottom dropped out of Sam's stomach, but his voice was steady as he inched forward. “Step away from him.  _Now._ ”

Rumlow didn't budge an inch. A cruel smile twisted his mangled face even further. “Well, well, well. The dog leaps to defend his master, but he's all bark. And what did you do with the mutt? Couldn't wait to get rid of him, could you? Finally realized you're dealing with nothing but a feral—”

All Sam saw of Winter was a dark blur and a flash of steel as he charged right into Rumlow and shoved him away from Steve's sofa. Rumlow's eyes widened at the sudden onslaught, and he barely managed to block Winter's metal arm with his knife. In his surprise, Rumlow gave ground, blocking Winter's punches and dodging his kicks. Thrust into medic mode, Sam circled around them and darted to Steve's side.

Cuts and smears of blood littered Steve's body, but upon closer inspection, most of them seemed superficial. Several of the cuts criss-crossing his bare chest even looked like they were beginning to heal....

Then Sam realized Steve's breathing was labored, gasping as though he couldn't get enough air. Sam had focused so much on the cuts that he hadn't immediately noticed what was missing from this picture: the breathing tube was gone.

Sam knew he had an extra in the first aid kit...but where was that? He looked around desperately, keeping an eye on Winter and Rumlow's ferocious fight. They seemed fairly evenly matched—Winter with his metal arm and enhanced strength, Rumlow with his knife and his position on top of the steps leading down to the lower area of the room.

“What's the matter?” Rumlow taunted as he traded blows with Winter. Winter blocked Rumlow's knife mere inches away from his face. “I think you're losing your touch!”

Finally, Sam spotted the first aid kit on the kitchen counter, where he had left all their weapons. The shield sat right next to his wings and Winter's rifle, glistening in the golden light of the lamps.

“You've gone soft, hanging around these two,” Rumlow jeered. “They let you forget your place, and now you think you _deserve_ this?”

A grunt from Winter told Sam that a blow had landed. But he couldn't turn around and help. Instead, he darted up the steps in the opposite direction, heading for the kitchen table.

“Don't let them fool you!” Rumlow cried. “You're nothing but a tool, and they'll throw you out as soon as they don't need you anymore!”

“You're...wrong...” Winter panted weakly. Sam glanced over his shoulder and saw that Winter and Rumlow were grappling for the knife, Rumlow using his position at the top of the stairs to his advantage.

Rumlow's eyes glittered in the dim light. “Then why don't you take off the mask? Isn't it because you know they'll hate you when they find out what you really are?”

“No....”

Sam grabbed the first aid kit with his free hand, then hesitated. He still held the pistol in his other hand...but the shield was right there....

“A _liar_ and a _pathetic coward,_ ” Rumlow continued relentlessly behind him. “That's what you are, Soldier! If they told you any different, it's because they're stupid enough to buy your _lies!_ ”

With a crash, Winter fell to the floor. Sam made a split-second decision, dropped the gun, and lunged for the shield. But just as his fingers closed around the rim, a loud  _bang!_ split the air and a tiny piece of metal ripped through his left leg.

Letting out a cry of pain, Sam fell to the floor. The shield slipped from his hand and rolled away as he clutched at the wound, gritting his teeth and trying not to scream. With immense effort, he raised his head. Winter was on the ground, and Rumlow stood on the other side of the room, steadying the pistol on the hand holding the knife. And now Sam only had a first-aid kit within reach.

A metal hand latched onto Rumlow's ankle and yanked him off balance just as the gun fired again. The bullet veered left and shattered a lamp on an end table instead of hitting Sam.

As the vicious fight resumed, Sam blinked tears of pain away and looked around the room. Thick blood oozed out from under the hand he had clamped over his wound, and he knew he needed to get it under real pressure fast. The bullet had narrowly missed a major artery, or he could have lost consciousness in under a minute.

Biting his lip to keep from crying out, Sam carefully started dragging himself back over to Steve's couch. He kept his left hand clamped over his thigh and gripped the first-aid kit in his right, using his right arm to pull himself along the floor.

He was already less than excited about the three steps down to the living area. There was no way to get down without painfully jarring his leg on every step. But he couldn't stop to rest, not when Steve was struggling to draw breath. By the time Sam reached the bottom, he could taste blood from biting his lip too hard.

Gasping, he finally made it to the couch. Still clutching his leg with his left hand, he popped open the first aid kit, scattering its contents across the floor in front of him. He grabbed the spare needle for Steve's collapsed lung and used his teeth to tear open the packaging one-handed. These were far from hygienic conditions and his hand was shaking, but he got it in position somehow and opened the valve, letting out the air trapped in Steve's chest.

As Steve gulped air greedily, Sam hastily wrapped a tourniquet above the bullet wound. He would worry about getting the bullet out later—if there  _was_ a later. He glanced up at Winter and Rumlow as he worked.

Rumlow had his back to the open front door now, and he kept trying to reach around Winter to get a shot at Steve and Sam. But Winter didn't let up for a second, blocking every movement and pushing him back towards the door.

A hand lightly touched Sam's shoulder. He glanced back to see Steve looking intently back at him. Steve lifted one finger and pointed.

The shield lay on the floor next to the fireplace, mere feet away.

Every movement felt like he was stabbing a knife into his leg. He inched along the floor until finally, by stretching out almost flat, he managed to curl his fingers around the edge of the shield and pull it towards him. Gasping from the exertion, Sam wanted nothing more than to stretch out on his back and succumb to the agony throbbing in his leg. But instead he rolled onto his front, grasped the edge of the coffee table, and levered himself up onto his good leg.

He had barely managed to get upright and find a precarious sense of balance when Rumlow kneed Winter in the stomach, sending him staggering into the coat tree. Winter fell to the floor again, winded and clutching his stomach. Seeing Sam standing upright, Rumlow quickly let off two shots, but Sam managed to bring the shield up just in time. The bullets pinged off the impervious metal instead of blasting through his chest.

Sam had always assumed the shield would be heavy and unwieldy, and the only reason Steve could whip it around so easily was his insane amount of strength. But the metal was light in his hands as he shifted his grip and tossed it as hard as he could.

Rumlow dodged to the side. The shield barely missed him, but knocked the gun out of his hand. With an irritated growl, Rumlow raised his knife and stomped forward. “That's the last time you'll get in my way....”

Sam, balanced precariously on one leg and once again weaponless, still raised his fists. But with an uncanny ease, Rumlow knocked his arms away and smashed a fist into Sam's cheek. Stars sparked across his vision as he crashed to the floor next to Steve's couch.

Sam blurrily watched the boot rising through the air as if in slow-motion, then stomp down on his injured leg.

He was sure he had never screamed so loud in his life. The pain was so severe that it didn't even seem to come from his leg anymore. It was all around him, all through him. He couldn't see, though he knew his eyes were open. One sound broke through the haze of pain, even louder than his scream: Rumlow was laughing. Loud and hard.

Sam gasped for breath, blinking the fog away and looking up at the man standing over him. Rumlow's face twisted in a hideous grin as he laughed, his eyes alight with an infernal fire. His boot still rested on Sam's leg, putting more and more pressure on it as he twisted the heel, grinding grit and dirt into the torn flesh.

Steve lunged up to a sitting position, grabbing at Rumlow with his right hand as if to pull him away. Rumlow backhanded Steve across the face, knocking him back onto the sofa cushions. Steve cried out, violently jostled, and Rumlow's cruel grin widened.

Sam wanted to yell at Steve to stop being an idiot, but it was too late. They were going to die, and the only reason they hadn't yet was because this sadistic maniac wanted to prolong their suffering.

A metal hand closed around Rumlow's neck from behind. Rumlow barely had time to look surprised before Winter heaved him over his shoulder and let him slam onto the ground.

Winter wasted precious seconds by glancing over his shoulder at them to gauge their status. By the time he turned back, Rumlow was struggling to his feet, switching his knife from his left hand to his right. As he did so, Sam managed to recognize the handle and the shape of the blade. Unless Hydra issued identical knives to all their operatives, that was Winter's knife. Rumlow must have grabbed it from the table where Sam had left it.

“Why do you keep fighting?” Rumlow panted, backing up slightly to stay out of Winter's reach. “You know your place.”

Winter stood resolutely between Rumlow and his wounded companions. “My place is right here.”

Sam glanced down and noticed the shield lying on the floor next to his battered leg. How had it managed to get all the way over here? Moving slowly and hoping Rumlow wouldn't notice what he was doing, Sam gradually wedged his fingers under the edge of the shield and inched it closer.

“Do you really think they're your friends?” Rumlow sneered. “That they _care_ about you?” He spat to the side. “I know what kind of people they are, and I know what you've done. Captain America is the last person in the world who would ever care about _you._ ”

Sam touched the shield to Winter's foot, pressing the edge and the weight of it against his toes. Then he let go and eased back against the couch behind him.

“It doesn't matter who I am,” Winter said firmly. “And it doesn't matter what I've done. Cap might be the last person in the world to care about me...but he was also the first. I won't let you hurt him.”

Winter flipped the shield into the air with his foot and caught it in his right hand even as he charged forward. Rumlow jabbed the knife at him, but Winter blocked it with his metal hand and smashed the shield into Rumlow's face.

Winter was on the offensive now. He pushed Rumlow back, step by step, not giving him an instant to retaliate. Winter used the shield just like Steve did—formidable protection, and a weapon. He moved like he had used this shield before, like he'd been  _born_ to use it. As if finally, after all those years of being forced to fight, he had finally found something worth fighting for.

Rumlow stumbled as he backed up the steps, and Winter took advantage of his momentary clumsiness to bring the edge of the shield down on Rumlow's wrist. Rumlow dropped the knife, and Winter snatched it out of the air.

Faced with a man wielding a vibranium shield and a large knife, Rumlow would have been justified in turning around and trying to escape. But he made no such attempt. He lunged forward instead, ducking under Winter's arm and grabbing him around the middle. The two crashed to the floor, wrestling for the knife and rolling over and over as each tried to gain the upper hand.

In the dim light and the frenzy of moving limbs, Sam wasn't quite sure how it happened, but Rumlow made a twisting motion and yanked the shield out of Winter's hand. Pinning Winter to the ground with his knees, he raised the shield with both hands, preparing to smash it down onto Winter's head.

A flash of steel, and Rumlow froze in place. The shield slipped from his limp hands, and Winter knocked it out of the way with his metal arm before it could hit him in the face. Then Rumlow slumped backwards, falling to the floor with the knife embedded in his neck. He let out a wet, gurgling sound, unable to speak as his fingers scrabbled uselessly at the knife. After a several seconds of panic, his hands flopped to either side and he fell utterly still.

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. The only sound in the room was Winter's muffled panting as he lay on his back, Rumlow's legs still folded on top of him. After all this time, in the end it was over so quickly.

Sam could feel the adrenaline seeping out of him, taking with it the temporary dulling of the pain. He looked down at the bloody mess Rumlow had made of his leg, and hastened to grab the last of the bandages.

At this sound, Winter kicked his way out from under Rumlow's body and swiftly crossed the room. His right hand brushed Sam's shoulder lightly as he knelt by his side. “You okay?” he panted wearily.

Sam thought about that for a minute, his mind starting to fog over with exhaustion now that the danger was past. Finally, he reached up and placed one of his bloody hands over Winter's. “I'm alive.”

Steve shifted just enough to place his right hand on top of the others. Sam looked up at both of his friends. They were all battered and bloody, having narrowly escaped death several times in the past twenty-four hours. But the worst was over, and they were alive.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow.... And though a man might prevail against one who is alone, two will withstand him—a threefold cord is not quickly broken._

_\- Ecclesiastes 9:9-10, 12_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been one of the hardest to get where I wanted it. Fight scenes are not my forte, but I wanted the climax to be exciting, even if it's not quite on the scale of the awesome actions scenes we all love from the movies. The other difficulty with this scene was that I wanted it to be Winter's heroic moment of triumph, where he finally gets a chance to stand between Hydra and his friends. Steve was easily out of the fight because of his wounds, but I had to balance keeping Sam out of most of the fighting while not just turning him into a passive wuss. Because Sam might not have superpowers, but he is an elite soldier and a force to be reckoned with all on his own. I hope I finally got that balance right.


	15. A Change in the Wind

_When is the first time that you'll never see someone again?_  
_When is the last time you weren't ready for it to end?_  
_When will I leave you standing alone there in the dark?_  
_They're never easy, but sometimes goodbyes are so hard_  
_They're so hard_  
  
_I look ahead but can't move on_  
_I look back but I can't stay_  
_I keep tryin' to be strong_  
_But this pain, it won't go away_

_\- “Goodbyes” by 3 Doors Down_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve woke to a dull, persistent pain in his chest and the muffled sound of someone's voice. “ _'I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue? What's happened to the world?'_ ”

At first Steve thought the voice was speaking to him, but gradually he realized it was reading. The words sounded familiar.

“ _'A great Shadow has departed,' said Gandalf, and then he laughed, and the sound was like music, or like water in a parched land, and as he listened the thought came to Sam that he had not heard laughter, the pure sound of merriment, for days upon days without count. It fell upon his ears like the echo of all the joys he had ever known. But he himself burst into tears._ ”

When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying in bed. He blinked at the ceiling, listening to the voice. He thought for a moment that something was wrong with his hearing, but then he recognized the cadences of that soft, low voice muffled behind a mask. He turned his head and found Winter sitting in a chair by his bed, reading from a thick book. Steve could easily read the title running down the spine in gold letters:  _The Return of the King._

“ _Then, as a sweet rain will pass down a wind of spring and the sun will shine out the clearer, his tears ceased, and his laughter welled up, and laughing he sprang from his bed._ ”

Winter glanced up and saw that Steve was awake. His eyes returned to the page, but his voice softened even further as he read one last paragraph.

“ _'How do I feel?' he cried. 'Well, I don't know how to say it. I feel, I feel'—he waved his arms in the air—'I feel like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves; and like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!'_ ”

Winter closed the book and sat staring at the cover for several long, drawn-out moments of silence. Steve wondered what expression hid behind the mask.

Suddenly Winter broke the silence. “I'm sorry.”

Steve thought he knew what was on Winter's mind, but he asked anyway. “About what?”

Winter met his eyes briefly before looking down again. Steve supposed he shouldn't feel so happy to see the turmoil written across Winter's face, but after the horrible blankness in the Winter Soldier's eyes, Steve was just relieved to see any kind of emotion there.

“I could have killed you,” Winter said softly. “I almost did. I'm...I'm sorry.”

Steve was painfully conscious of the chest tube still helping him breathe, but he smiled despite that. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Winter looked up at him, brow furrowed. “What do you mean? I stabbed you.”

Steve tapped his chin, pretending to think. “Hmm...no, I'm pretty sure the guy who stabbed me was the Winter Soldier. The man who saved my life was Winter, so I can see how you might get the two confused.... By the way, remind me to thank him later, would you?”

Winter shot him a look of such fond exasperation that Steve could only grin wider than ever. After staring at him for a moment, Winter snorted and shook his head...and Steve couldn't be sure, but he  _thought_ Winter's eyes were crinkling up in a smile. “Yeah...I'll do that.”

Something passed between them as they looked at each other, another invisible strand weaving into the thread binding them together. It reminded Steve a bit of when Winter had given up his knives once and for all. It was a moment that needed no words. It didn't matter that he couldn't even see half of Winter's face, nor that there was still so much they didn't understand about each other. He didn't need to understand when he knew there was a corner of his heart that Winter had carved out for his own, a place that belonged to no one else.

“Once you're done staring soulfully into each other's eyes,” a labored voice said from the doorway, “you might wanna get a chair for the medic before he falls down.”

Steve looked up to see Sam standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on a walking stick that looked like it had been whittled down from the sturdy branch of a tree. Thick bandages peeked out from under the left leg of his shorts.

Winter jumped up and quickly carried his chair over so Sam could collapse stiffly into it with a hiss of pain. This quickly turned into an undignified squeak as Winter picked him up, chair and all, and deposited him next to Steve's bed.

Winter shrugged at Sam's embarrassed glare. “This way's easiest.”

Sam rolled his eyes as he bent over Steve to check his wounds. “Show-off,” he muttered.

Up close, Steve could see the lurid bruise that stretched across Sam's cheek, marking the place where Rumlow had hit him. “What happened to Rumlow?” he asked quietly.

“Lying in an unmarked grave,” Winter said. “No one's going to find him anytime soon.”

Steve nodded. Even after everything Rumlow had done, he was still sad it had to end like this. He could have turned his life around like Winter, but instead his choices had led to his grave.

Just as Sam was rolling up the last of the bandages, Winter stiffened and stared out the window next to Steve's bed. “Someone's coming,” he hissed. “A woman. Red hair.”

Sam raised himself on his good leg just enough to peer out the window, and his face instantly brightened. “It's Natasha! Let her in!”

Steve nodded reassuringly when Winter hesitated. “It's all right, she's a friend.”

Winter didn't look entirely convinced, but made no protest as he left the room. Natasha's voice drifted to them from the front door, though Steve couldn't make out what she said. Then she stepped into the bedroom with Winter looming behind her like a baleful shadow warning her not to try anything.

Natasha beamed at them, dressed casually in jean shorts and a black T-shirt that read  _Cute But Psycho_ in bright pink letters. Her hair was shorter and wavier than the last time Steve had seen her, as if she were trying to distance herself from the woman who had made an appearance on Capitol Hill.

“Well, aren't you two a sight for sore eyes,” she said, hugging Sam and bending down to plant a brief kiss on Steve's forehead, since he couldn't get up to greet her.

“How'd you know we were here?” Sam asked.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Give me  _some_ credit. Your names have been all over the news, and then you disappear right next to one of the safe houses  _I_ told you about? Doesn't take Tony Stark to figure  _that_ one out.”

Steve smiled. He should have known this would happen. “It's good to see you again, Natasha.”

“I came by to see if you needed any help,” she said, glancing around at their wounds. “Those terrorists sounded like a rough crowd. But I guess the excitement's over now?”

“We took care of it,” Steve said. “Crossbones won't be bothering anyone anymore.”

After a moment's pause, Sam said, “Help me up, Winter, and we'll go get some lunch made.”

Winter helped Sam lever himself to his feet, then pulled one of Sam's arms across his shoulders. “I could just carry you,” he said as Sam limped his way to the door. He was supporting most of Sam's weight easily.

“No, thanks,” Sam said in a strained voice. “I'd like to keep _some_ of my dignity intact.”

“You're an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one, dude.”

Natasha sank into the chair Sam had vacated, gazing after them as they made their way out of the room. “He's really changed a lot,” she said softly. “I'm impressed.”

Steve smiled fondly. The last time Natasha had seen Winter, he'd trashed Sam's car, shot her through the shoulder, and threatened the lives of countless civilians without batting an eye. The change must be like night and day for her. Since he had been there every step of the way, sometimes Steve forgot just how far Winter had come in such a short time. “He's an amazing person, Natasha. I'm lucky to know him.”

“Still wearing the mask, though? Or is that just because I'm here?”

Steve shook his head. “He's not ready to take it off. Maybe he never will be. But that's okay. I've gotten used to it after all this time.”

Natasha smiled and tipped her chair back on two legs. “It really has been a long time, hasn't it?” She gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling for a minute or two, then let the chair fall back to the floor with a thump.

“Everyone has been wondering where you are,” she said. “And I don't just mean your fan club, I mean the other Avengers. We got a message from Thor, by the way. He wants our help looking for Loki's staff. Seems S.H.I.E.L.D. was studying it, and...well, you know what that means.”

Steve sighed. “Hydra has it.”

For the first time, it hit Steve just how long it had been since he'd been in contact with any of the others. He'd been so sequestered in the little world he had crafted with Sam and Winter, and then he'd been so preoccupied with Crossbones, that he had almost forgotten the other obligations in his life. Winter needed his help so much...but there were other people who needed his help too. Finding Loki's staff was important—Steve knew exactly how much damage it could do in Hydra's hands. For all he knew, they could be using the staff's mind-controlling powers to create a new Winter Soldier while he lay uselessly in this bed.

“I'll tell the others you're injured,” Natasha said, watching him closely. “Knowing you, it won't be too long before you're back on your feet, and then we can start our search.”

“No,” Steve said, gripping the sheets with his good hand. “Don't wait for me. There's no time to waste—you need to start looking right away. I'll catch up as soon as I can.”

Sam and Winter returned at that moment with sandwiches and extra chairs, so their discussion was cut short. Steve did his best to shove aside his worries about the staff and focus on the conversation. There was nothing he could do for now; it was out of his hands.

Sam and Natasha did most of the talking, filling each other in on what they'd been up to in the last months. Sam didn't go into much detail about the struggles they'd gone through with Winter; apparently he, like Steve, didn't want to delve into something so personal when Winter and Natasha barely knew each other.

Natasha regaled them with a humorous story of the Christmas party Tony had insisted on throwing for the Avengers despite not knowing where any of them were. Natasha had been tasked with hunting them all down, and in the end the only ones who had been absent were Steve and Thor.

Steve tried to imagine the other Avengers laughing, getting tipsy, and teasing each other about mistletoe in Avengers Tower while Steve knelt in a bathroom a couple states over, trying to keep Winter from bleeding out right in front of him. And yet, he treasured the ill-fated little gathering with Sam and Winter much more than the most dazzlingly festive party money could buy.

Through the whole conversation, Winter stood in the corner, like some kind of bodyguard glowering in the shadows. He didn't eat anything, and Steve realized he would have felt uncomfortable wearing just a bandanna around a near-stranger. He was tolerating Natasha's presence for their sake, but he wasn't anywhere close to relaxing the way he did when it was just the three of them.

Steve's heart sank even as he tried to listen to Natasha's story. If this was Winter's reaction to being around  _one_ new person, a trusted friend...how would he fare in a city full of strangers?

Soon after the meal was over, Natasha stood up. “I shouldn't keep you two up too long,” she said. “Get some rest, and I'll let the others know you're okay. I'll draw the media away from here too, so no one will disturb you. Maybe I can get Thor to dress up like you and make some appearances online.”

Steve groaned, imagining the muscular man bellowing something like,  _“Fear my mighty shield, for verily it is I, Captain America!”_

Natasha gave Sam another hug, grasped Steve's hand warmly, and nodded to Winter as she left. As soon as she was gone, Steve felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him. She was right—he'd been awake for too long. He decided he could worry about everything else later, and let himself drift off to sleep.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

For the first time, Steve almost wished the serum hadn't made his body able to heal so fast. Sam soon took the chest tube out, and his right arm healed so rapidly that it was back to its full strength in a matter of days. The knife wound in his chest took a little longer, but he knew it wouldn't be long before he could fight again without worrying about breaking something.

But he was surprised at how reluctant he felt at the prospect of hunting down the last dregs of Hydra. Because he knew what that would mean: rejoining the Avengers, returning to the spotlight...and who knew what Winter's reaction to that would be?

Months ago, Steve might have gone to Sam and discussed with him in low voices what they were going to tell Winter. But now he saw how wrong that approach had been. Winter needed help, but that didn't make him a child. He deserved to be a part of the discussion as much as Sam did.

Steve finally brought up the subject one morning, after he and Winter had finished the breakfast dishes. Sam sat at the dining table, since his leg kept him from standing for very long. His recovery was much slower than Steve's since he had nothing supernatural to speed it along. Steve eased himself into the chair across from Sam, wincing as his healing muscles pulled with the movement.

“There's something I need to talk to you two about,” Steve said heavily.

Winter slowly sank into his usual chair at the foot of the table, where he could look at both of them without turning his head. His eyes were wary as he looked up at Steve.

With a sigh, Steve clasped his hands and stared down at the tabletop, as if the pattern of the wood grain could tell him what he should do. He told them what Natasha had said, explaining that this powerful artifact was now in Hydra's clutches. He didn't have to spell it out for them. They knew what Hydra could do with such power.

“I have to go back,” Steve finished, looking up at last. “I have to look for the scepter, and stop whatever plans they have for it.”

“Of course you do,” Sam said steadily. “There's no question about that. The only question is....” He looked over at Winter. “What do _we_ do?”

Winter's brows had drawn so close together they looked like a single eyebrow. He looked from Steve to Sam and back again, obviously unhappy. But there was none of the panic this conversation would surely have elicited if they'd had it even a month ago.

Steve smiled half-heartedly. “Well...I  _was_ considering asking if either of you wanted to become an Avenger.”

When Sam snorted and rolled his eyes, Steve said, “I'm only half joking, Sam. You would make a great Avenger.”

“Yeah right,” Sam scoffed. “I don't even have superpowers.”

“Neither does Natasha,” Steve pointed out. “Half of the Avengers have no supernatural abilities.” When Sam just stared at him like he was crazy, Steve chuckled. “Come on, Sam, you're amazing. Don't sell yourself short just because nobody injected you with anything.”

Sam blinked a few times in quick succession. “Um...wow. Okay. But...you know I won't be running any races until this heals.” He gingerly patted the bandage still wrapped around his thigh. “Not sure I'll be much help.”

Steve smiled. “I'm sure we can find something for you to do. Filing paperwork...bringing us coffee....”

He laughed as Sam wadded up a napkin and threw it at him. “I'm not joining the Avengers just to become a secretary!”

But as Steve looked over at Winter, the smile faded from his lips. Winter stared at them with the dazed expression of a deer in the headlights. Slowly, he shook his head. “I can't,” he whispered. “You know I can't. I can't even....” He gripped his head with both hands. “I don't even know how to be normal.”

Steve smiled sadly. “'Normal' is definitely not something you have to worry about with this crowd.” But he sobered when he saw just how distressed Winter was, his fingers digging into his hair as if trying to hold his brain in place. “It's okay,” Steve added gently. “You don't have to join up; I know the last thing you want is to come into contact with  _them_ again.”

“It's...not just that,” Winter murmured, one hand sliding down to rest on the mask that obscured his features.

And now they had reached the point Steve had been dreading the most. “You would draw a lot of attention in D.C. and New York,” he said, nodding. “With the mask on...especially at this time of year...at the very least, you'd get a lot of stares.”

They fell silent, but Steve had a feeling they were all thinking the same thing. If Winter would just take off the mask, maybe he could blend in with the crowd a little more. But Steve knew better than to suggest taking it off. If Winter was going to take off his mask, it would have to be his own choice, not induced or pressured by anyone else. Otherwise, it would be little better than if they yanked the mask off by force. No, such an important decision needed to be his own.

“I can't.” The harsh whisper broke the silence as painfully as a shout. “I can't go with you.”

Steve felt like he was trying to swallow a golf ball, so all he could do was nod in understanding. This was the beginning of the end, wasn't it? Once they parted ways, once they no longer spent every waking hour together...things would slowly but surely start to change. They might even start to drift apart from each other emotionally as well as physically.

Winter stared bleakly out the window. “Where should I go?”

“You could stay here,” Sam suggested. “Nobody knows you're here except us and Natasha.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “You could keep the motorcycle just in case, and Sam could show you how to do 'online shopping'.” He remembered Sam explaining that people could buy groceries on the internet now, which ranked pretty high on the most bizarre changes Steve had heard of since 1945.

“Besides,” Sam added, “this way we'll know exactly where to go when we come back.”

Winter had been staring listlessly out the window, making no reaction to any of their suggestions, but this made him turn back to them. “Come back?”

The desperate hope sparking in his eyes, as if he could hardly believe his ears, made Steve's heart ache. “Of course we're coming back,” he said, sliding into the empty chair to his left so he could reach out and grasp Winter's hand. “Even if I have to leave for a while, I will  _always_ come back for you.”

Winter gripped his hand so tightly that it hurt. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Hey,” Sam said, leaning forward even though he didn't move closer because of his leg. “If you need me to, I can stay till Cap gets back.”

Winter was silent for a moment, but then he shook his head. “No...you have family to go back to...and other friends. They've probably been worried about you all this time.” A faintly mischievous glimmer appeared in his eyes. “Besides...we'd probably kill each other if we were alone, and then Cap would be sad.”

Their laughter was subdued, and didn't turn aside the impending change, but at least for the moment, they could still laugh and tease each other like always. At least for a short time, they could rest in the knowledge that they had each other.

It only took a few more days before Steve healed enough that he could think of no more excuses for delay. They used those days to prepare Winter as much as possible for their departure. They made sure he was stocked up on supplies, and set up a credit card under a different name with enough money to keep him going for a month, even though they were only planning to be gone for a week at first. They also got him a phone with unlimited calls, and Sam showed him how everything worked.

After Sam's explanation, Winter stood looking at the credit card and phone in his hands for a while. Finally he looked up again, brow furrowed. “You shouldn't give me these things,” he said slowly. “I don't have anything of my own; I can't pay you back.”

Steve waved a hand dismissively. “Don't worry about it. These are things you need, and I'm happy to give them to you.”

Winter still looked troubled. “But...you've already given me so much....”

Steve clapped him on the shoulders cheerfully. “Tell you what. You just make sure to answer all my texts and be here when I get back, and we'll call it even.”

“Wh-What?” Winter said, almost laughing. “But just me _being_ here isn't worth all _this._ ” He indicated the valuables in his hands.

Steve's smile widened as he looked at his friend. Affection warmed his heart even as it sank a little more every minute that drew their separation closer. “You're right,” he said thoughtfully. “It's worth much more. I'll have to think of something else to give you.”

Sam snorted from his chair. “Better watch out, Winter, or he'll buy you a Captain America body pillow to keep you company.”

Sooner than any of them liked, all their preparations were complete. Winter had everything he needed, all their bags were packed in the back of the car, and there was nothing holding them back from driving to D.C.

Nothing except the leaden weight stuck in Steve's chest.

He tried to tell himself it was stupid to get this worked up about it—they would be back in a matter of days, as soon as the hunt for the staff had reached some kind of lull that would allow him to take a day off. Steve knew from experience that such days were inevitable in any mission. Once the action started, it was usually over in a day or two, sometimes just a matter of hours. But in between was a lot of waiting and planning, running into dead ends until they finally hit on a good lead.

But as he looked at Winter standing at the top of the front steps, picking at a bit of paint peeling on the railing, it was hard not to feel like they were abandoning him.

“You'll text me, right?” Steve said, standing at the foot of the steps and looking up at him.

“Yeah,” Sam called from the car, where he was carefully climbing into the driver's seat. “If you don't respond to us by the end of the day, we'll assume Crossbones turned into a zombie and we'll have to come rescue you.”

Winter nodded, staring at his feet.

Steve took the front steps in one stride and pulled Winter into a hug. He could feel Winter's warmth through his shirt, his steady pulse beating against his chest. Winter's arms circled around him, pulling him closer. Steve sighed, resting his chin on Winter's shoulder. “One thing's for sure,” he murmured. “I'm going to miss you, Winter.”

“Not as much as I already miss you.”

Winter's arms felt so comfortable around him. He had grown so used to this—to having Winter right beside him. Steve's mind told him he needed to go, but everything else screamed at him to stay.  _Don't let him go!_ An irrational spike of fear pinned him in place.  _What if he's not here when you get back?_

Almost as if Winter could hear that traitorous voice in the back of his head, he tightened his grip slightly and whispered, “Come back soon?”

“I will.”

Finally, Steve managed to pull away, knowing that if he didn't, they would stand there for hours. As he turned and headed for the car, Sam turned the key in the ignition.

Somehow, that sound was so final that Steve abruptly turned on his heel and grabbed Winter for one last hug. “I'm not going to say goodbye,” he said, emotion making his voice rough. “Because we're going to see each other again soon, right? So...see you later.”

Steve let go and rushed into the car before he could lose his resolve. As Sam pulled out of the driveway, Steve leaned out his window and waved. Winter stood where they'd left him, his expression impossible to read. Steve watched the cabin grow smaller and smaller until they turned a corner and it disappeared from sight.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds._

_\- Psalm 147:3_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there's an LotR comeback. I couldn't resist :P In a lot of ways, this chapter is about showing off how much Winter has grown since the beginning of this journey. A lot of things have changed, and the stand that Winter took in the previous chapter really solidified his grasp of his own identity. We are defined by the actions we take and the choices we make, so regardless of whatever facts Winter may know or believe about himself and his past, he at least knows that he is someone who will fight for his friends' lives. Making that kind of decision really shows who you are—even just to yourself.


	16. Age of Ultron

_Every time you go_  
_You take a part of me_  
_A part of me with you_  
_Every time you go_  
_I feel it in my soul_  
_Every time you go_  
_I'm half what I used to be_  
_When you were in my arms_  
_Every time you go_  
_You take a part of me_  
_A part of me with you_  
_Every time you go_  
  
_I count the days until you're back again_  
_Back here by my side_  
_When we're apart it feels like_  
_Something in me_  
_Something in me dies_  
  
_I hear your voice over the phone_  
_And God, I miss you_  
_Still all these miles away from home_  
_That I'll never get used to_

_\- “Every Time You Go” by 3 Doors Down_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The first couple of days after leaving Winter passed relatively quickly. Steve met Sam's family and settled into the guest room in Sam's house. They met up with the Avengers, and he introduced them all to their newest member. Apparently, Tony had already analyzed what footage they had of Sam's skills in the battle to bring down the helicarriers, and would have tried to recruit him earlier if he'd known where to look.

Naturally, everyone wanted to know where they'd been since September. Some were more subtle about asking, like Clint's oblique comments that invited an explanation without demanding one. Others, like Tony, made unabashed jokes about Steve and Sam going on an extended honeymoon—intentionally teasing about something he knew wasn't true, in the hopes that Steve would get so annoyed he would let something slip. But Steve and Sam calmly ignored all of this and stayed silent.

It was easy for Steve to push thoughts of Winter to the side when they were in the heat of battle, or when he had to pour his focus into planning their next move or predicting the enemy's next counter-attack. He could push his body and his mind to their limits, and forget about the weight in his heart. But every time he allowed himself to relax while riding in the back of the Quinjet, or when he was trying to sleep, his thoughts immediately circled back to Winter. What was he doing, all alone in that empty cabin? What was he thinking about? How did he spend his time? What new challenges might he be facing that Steve knew nothing about?

Sam, who was still limping pretty badly as his leg healed, stayed behind to help Maria Hill take care of things back at headquarters. While he was off on the hunt for the staff, Steve could almost believe he was back in the days he worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., or the brief period when all the Avengers had been assembled before. But as soon as he saw Sam waiting to greet him when he got off the Quinjet, the pain of missing Winter would smack him in the face.

True to their agreement, Steve and Sam kept in close contact with Winter, texting him whenever they got a chance. Mere text was no substitute for actually being together, but Steve was delighted when Winter's personality started to shine through. Sam had shown him how to take selfies, and at the oddest moments Steve would receive a picture that mostly consisted of Winter's mask, with a caption of something like  _#ducklips._ Steve had to learn quickly how to keep a straight face when others were looking.

Steve felt a little guilty at how relieved he was when they ran out of leads. They had rooted out several pockets of Hydra that still lingered, but nowhere had they found any trace of the staff. Rather than hanging around waiting for a breakthrough like most of the others, Steve and Sam took the opportunity to go back to Winter's cabin. Steve was too happy at the prospect to pay much attention to the others' surprise that he wasn't completely obsessed with hunting down Hydra.

Steve and Sam decided to catch a plane back to Colorado, to cut down on travel time. As they descended towards Denver in lazy, gentle spirals, Steve's stomach turned somersaults that had nothing to do with the shift in altitude. But nothing was better than pulling into the driveway of the cabin at last and seeing Winter standing on the front steps as if he hadn't moved the entire time they'd been gone.

As soon as he stopped the car, Steve hopped out and bounded up the steps. “Winter!” he cried, throwing his arms around his friend. “You okay? How've you been? I've missed you so much!”

When he took a step back, he saw that Winter's eyes were crinkled up in a smile above his mask. That made Steve's grin widen even more.

“Give him a chance to breathe,” Sam laughed as he walked over, carrying both of their bags. Dr. Cho, the latest member of Tony's staff, had done something with his leg to speed up the healing process, though she strictly forbade them from sending him into action before she gave the all-clear. Steve knew Sam was itching to get out there and help with the fighting, but he could still detect a slight limp in his walk.

“Hey, man,” Sam said, handing the bags to Steve as he approached. Instead of hugging Winter, he held up a fist. Winter stared at it a moment, then hesitantly knocked his knuckles against Sam's. “All _right,_ you remembered!” Sam crowed.

“I still don't understand why people do that,” Winter said with a raised eyebrow.

“It's a manly sign of camaraderie and affection,” Sam said. “I'd give you a noogie too, but you'd probably break my arm if I tried.”

It was amazing how quickly they could settle back into their old routines. They followed no agenda or plan for what they filled their days with, just spent hours enjoying each other's company. They talked, laughed, cooked meals, read books, sat outside and watched fireflies until the stars came out. It was just like old times, only made sweeter by the week they had been apart.

But no matter how enjoyable their time together was, they all knew it couldn't last. They had to get back to the search, which meant they had to part once more. This time, when Steve gave Winter a hug goodbye, Winter didn't seem to want to let go. After several long minutes while Sam sat in the car with the engine running, Steve said gently, “I'm sorry, Winter. But I  _have_ to go.”

Winter's metal fingers were digging painfully into his side, but he didn't flinch. “What will I do if you don't come back this time?” Winter whispered.

“Hey, I promised you I would,” Steve said, rubbing Winter's back soothingly. “Don't you believe me?”

“Yeah...but what if something happens? What if...I...n-never....”

Steve silently finished the sentence for him.  _What if I never say goodbye?_ He wanted to reassure Winter that nothing would go wrong, but they both knew better. In a moment, everything could change. The unthinkable could happen with no warning. Empty promises would bring no comfort if worse came to worst.

Steve pried himself out of Winter's arms just enough to look him in the eye. “You've changed me, Winter. I'm not the way I used to be. And that means I carry a little piece of you with me wherever I go. It's not the same as being with you for real, but...sometimes it's almost like you're still there. I hope it's a little like that for you too.”

Winter nodded, dropping his eyes and loosening his grip enough for Steve to slip out of his arms. He gave Winter's shoulder one final squeeze, then turned away. With a heavy heart, he got into the car and rolled down his window as Sam started to drive away.

“Winter!” Steve called. “We'll be back before you know it!”

Winter didn't look up as they pulled away.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

When Steve and Sam returned to New York, they soon learned it wouldn't be quite as quick and simple of a trip as it had been the first time. A Hydra base they took down in Italy pointed them towards one last stronghold, a final hiding place so heavily armed it could only be protecting something as powerful as the staff. Steve had never heard of Sokovia, but apparently it was one of the eastern European countries that had broken away from the Soviet Union. A perfect breeding ground for Hydra, which fed off unrest and discontent like maggots on a rotting corpse.

Planning their approach took a long time, since the base was surrounded by a small town of innocent civilians. But once they actually attacked, of course, it didn't take long before the staff was in their hands.

Steve hoped that would be the end of it. Thor would take the staff back to where it belonged, far away from Earth, and he could return to Winter. It felt wrong not to have Winter by his side, like he was missing a limb or going into battle without his shield. He could function, of course, and even be happy...but something vital was missing from his life, and it made everything ten times harder.

Steve was tempted to skip out on the party celebrating their success, but he and Sam eventually agreed they should stick around until they were sure the staff was safely on its way back to Asgard before they relaxed with Winter.

In the end, he was glad they had decided to wait. A malfunctioning robot Tony and Bruce hadn't told anyone they were making crashed the party, and suddenly all of the Avengers had far too much on their hands to worry about.

As always, thoughts of Winter lurked in the back of Steve's mind no matter what he was doing. But when they chased Ultron to Wakanda, Winter was suddenly yanked to center stage.

The enhanced brother and sister they had encountered in Sokovia showed up in Wakanda too, though it wasn't clear if they were working for Ultron now or not. Pietro was challenging to fight, since he moved so fast he was nothing but a blur, there and gone in the blink of an eye. But Wanda was the true challenge. She reached into all their minds and molded them like putty, showing them things that made them shudder and refuse to tell the others about.

Even knowing it was a dream implanted in his mind, even though he should have been prepared for it after what Tony had seen in Sokovia, the vision Wanda gave him still rattled Steve more than he liked to admit. One minute he was in the middle of a battle, trying to prevent Ultron from obtaining the means to destroy the world. Then he blinked, and he was in a crowded dance hall, wearing the dress uniform he hadn't touched since 1945.

The raucous laughter, the brassy music, the warm press of bodies all around him as they swirled in a lively dance, was all so incongruous with the adrenaline still roaring through his veins.  _Danger! Danger! Danger!_ it screamed in his head.

Wait. Someone was  _actually_ screaming. Steve whirled around to find the source, but only saw a woman in a flowered dress shrieking with mirth as a man in a suit dipped her so low her blonde curls brushed the floor.

In the corner of his eye, Steve thought he saw a dark figure brooding in the shadows, but when he looked again there was no one there. His nerves were so taut he couldn't stay still, so he started moving through the crowd. But instead of calming down, his racing heart only beat faster than ever. Everything was  _wrong._ A bright flash went off, and he started, raising his arms to shield his head from the blast, but it was only a camera light. A gunshot, a spurt of blood—but no, that was a cork popping and wine spilling down a man's shirt. And everywhere he turned, there was a dark figure lurking in the corner of his vision, accompanied by the persistent sound of screaming that no one else seemed to hear.

A hand grabbed his arm. He whirled around, ready to strike—

“Are you ready for our dance?”

Peggy stood before him—not the wrinkled agent weighed down with age he had visited in a nursing home last fall, but the Peggy of his memories. She was young, her brown hair tied up in an elaborate bun, wearing a soft purple dress that fluttered as she pulled his arms around her and began to dance.

Steve took the first step of the dance, but then he caught sight of the dark figure again. He froze, whipping his head around to see where that person was, but they had vanished without a trace.

“Steve,” Peggy said gently, drawing his attention back to her.

She was radiant with joy and youthful beauty. She was everything he'd ever wanted...and she  _wasn't real._

Peggy's smile widened, her sharp brown eyes softening as they always had when she looked at him. “It's all right, Steve,” she said soothingly. “The war's over.”

Peggy's body twisted away from him, twitching and jerking as if a thousand bullets had found their mark. She whirled back to face him, and Steve saw that she had become the ominous figure that had been haunting him all this time. The light glinted on his metal arm, and his face was obscured by his mask and long dark hair.

“Winter?”

The metal hand shot out and grabbed Steve by the throat. His eyes blazed madly above the mask as he howled, “The war is  _never_ over!”

The screams echoing in the back of Steve's mind suddenly rushed around him, like a chorus of all the helpless victims no one had been there to save. The sound of endless torment drowned him, and all he could hear was Winter screaming, begging Steve to come save him, turn around right now and rescue him....

The next thing he knew, Clint was bending over him, tapping his face to rouse him. As they all shakily got back to the Quinjet, each of them quietly trying to shrug off the effects of what they'd seen, Steve just wanted to talk to Winter. But he had left his phone with the rest of his belongings in Avengers Tower, and he'd already explained to Winter why their visit would have to be postponed. There was nothing Winter could do to help from so far away, but Steve just wanted to hear his voice again. Maybe if he heard it for real, it would silence the screams that still echoed in his ears.

So once they had more or less settled in at Clint's farmhouse, Steve went in search of Mrs. Barton. He found her chopping a veritable mountain of vegetables in the kitchen. She looked like she was preparing to feed a small army—which, upon further reflection, was exactly what her house guests amounted to. Such a homely sight was so incongruous with her husband's life as a bow-wielding superhero that Steve couldn't help staring a little.

“Did you need something, Captain?” Mrs. Barton smiled over her shoulder at him, startling him out of his daze.

“Oh! Sorry. Just Steve, ma'am, please. And I was wondering if I could use your phone.”

“Of course—it's just over there.”

Steve had to step over a pile of muddy boots, a deflated football, and a badminton racket to reach the phone hanging on the wall beside the back door, but he was grateful for the modicum of privacy the coat tree afforded him, muffling his voice and mostly shielding him from view.

The phone rang so many times that Steve was starting to wonder if Winter would ever pick up. His friend probably wasn't sure if he should answer at all, since he wouldn't recognize the number. But eventually, Steve heard a click and the quiet ambient sounds of a connected phone call.

“Winter?” Steve said in a low voice, glancing around the jumble of coats to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “It's me.”

There was a thump and a rustling sound, then Winter's muffled voice said, “Cap? It's...really you?”

Steve smiled, the tension easing out of his shoulders. “Yeah, it's really me.”

“Sam said he didn't know where you were.” Winter hesitated, but Steve could hear the worry in his silence. “Are you...hurt?”

“No,” Steve said. “I'm not hurt, I'm...I'm fine.”

“You don't _sound_ fine.”

“It's okay,” Steve said, trying to lighten his tone of voice. “It's just...something happened. I owe you the whole story when I see you next. It was...a nightmare, I guess you could call it. Can't seem to shake it off.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Winter was the perfect person to talk to about something like this. He knew exactly what it was like to be haunted by vivid dreams, regardless of the knowledge that they weren't real. But Steve realized that what he really wanted was to have Winter there to lend him his strong, reassuring presence. He wanted to sink into a familiar embrace, one side warm and the other cold, letting that sensation banish the last shreds of the vision.

Steve sighed, leaning against the wall behind the coat tree. “I don't know. I'm not sure why it's hitting me so hard, but...I miss you. It...helps...just to hear your voice. I needed to know you're all right.”

“It's really bad, isn't it?” Winter asked after a pause. “What you're facing. You're really worried about it.”

With a rueful smile, Steve switched the receiver to his other hand. Winter knew him far too well by now. Nothing got past him anymore. “You're awfully perceptive today, you know that?” Sighing again, Steve gazed out the window in the back door, and caught sight of Tony chopping firewood in his shirtsleeves. “I thought Hydra was the worst evil I could face, but...I don't know. Sometimes I think my allies are more dangerous than my enemies. And...I don't know how we're going to beat this, Winter. I have a feeling the price we pay will be too high.”

“Be careful. I know you have to go save the world, but...promise you'll be careful.”

“I promise,” Steve said solemnly. “But try not to worry too much, okay? I've got a good team at my back; we've made it through situations like this before.”

“I should be there with you,” Winter muttered. “I'm sorry I'm...like this.”

“No, don't....” Steve raised a hand, as if he could reach through the phone line and put it on Winter's shoulder. He let it drop back uselessly to his side. “You knew you weren't ready for something like this, and that's okay. I just need to know you're safe. That way I can focus on doing what needs to be done out here.”

“I know this is important to you.”

“It is. And it's even more important to me now because of you.” He held the phone close, listening to every minute sound over the phone line. “I hope you know that.”

Steve waited for Winter to say something, but after a long, awkward pause with nothing but drifting static, he decided he wasn't going to get a response. “Okay, I guess I should go....”

“Wait!” Winter's voice blurted over the line, a desperate, breathless rush of sound. “Th-There's something I...need to say...to tell you.... I should've said it before, but.... And if...if this is my last chance...I.... You h-have to know—”

“Winter,” Steve gently cut through the frantic babble. “Shhh, just slow down. Don't bury me yet."

“But I-I couldn't stand it if...if you never...if I didn't....”

“I'm not going to die on you.” Steve didn't allow a single shred of doubt to creep into his voice. “But if it's that important, can it wait long enough for you to say it to my face instead?”

A sigh fuzzed across the line. “Yeah...that might be better.”

“Don't worry,” Steve reiterated softly. “Give me a little time and I'll be back to you in one piece, I promise. You can tell me what you need to say then.” Winter definitely had something important and desperate to say, but whatever it was, it was not quite pressing enough that it needed to be said over the phone. If he was this torn up about it, Steve wanted to be there so that Winter could be immediately reassured, even with just a glance, that nothing he said would change anything between them.

“Okay,” Winter said softly. “I'll be waiting.”

When he hung up and stepped around the coat tree again, Steve found Mrs. Barton watching him thoughtfully as she peeled a potato. “She's going to worry no matter what you say, you know,” she said.

Steve glanced around the room to make sure she wasn't talking to someone else, but they were still the only ones there. “Sorry, who...?”

“Your girlfriend—Winter.”

Steve felt his face grow warm. “Oh, no—that's not—that...that wasn't my girlfriend.” Somehow, it was worse to have Mrs. Barton get the wrong impression than the rest of the team; she wasn't just joking around like Tony. Why did everyone have to jump to the girlfriend conclusion? Couldn't he just miss one of his best friends?

“Hmm.” Mrs. Barton didn't look like she believed him, but she returned to her potato. “Well, whoever you were talking to must be important to you. And I can tell you....” She sighed, gazing out the window over the sink. Steve could hear childish laughter outside as Clint chased his son and daughter around with the garden hose. “The ones who get left behind have nothing better to do than worry when you're gone. You risk your lives to save us...but we risk being safe _without_ you.”

She turned to look over her shoulder at him, shadows deepening the creases in her cheeks and forehead, making her look older than her years. “Just remember that, Steve. Remember who you're leaving behind before you go making promises you can't keep, and then get yourself killed.”

A shiver rippled through Steve's shoulders, and he regarded her carefully with soft eyes. “Yes, ma'am. I remember the risk every day I'm away. I've been the one left grieving, I've done the leaving.” He caught a glimpse of Clint walking past outside with his daughter perched on his shoulders and his son skipping along at his side. “I wouldn't wish either on anyone. That love doesn't cease to exist after death, it just...stagnates into the memories of what was. It's not the same. One day, my friends will find out that I'm not coming home to them. But on that same day, I'll get the news that my friends...the friends I lived for, ultimately gave my life for...will eventually learn how to live without me.”

He sighed, long and deep. There were no words to describe the weight of fear for such a day. A day when they would be hurting, and he would be unable to do anything to help. “I do what I can to make sure they know how much I love them while I'm here. Even if that means promising to come home, when there's no way to know for sure...at least they'll know they were my end goal every time.”

Steve's conversation with Mrs. Barton clung to him even more than the disturbing vision Wanda Maximoff had given him. Even as he threw himself at Ultron with as much unhesitating skill and tenacity as ever, he kept thinking about his promise to return to Winter. As in any battle, he knew there was always a chance that he wouldn't walk away. That seemed even more likely than usual once Ultron caused a portion of the city to actually rise into the air.

Steve was forced to consider what would happen in the very likely event that he died in Sokovia. At one time, he might have thought he could die in peace as long as he could be sure that Ultron was defeated. But now, all he could think about was what Winter would do if he died. Sam would take care of him, of course. They would rely on each other to survive. But that wasn't enough for Steve. He didn't just want Winter to survive. He wanted Winter to have the best of everything. And he hoped it wasn't too arrogant to think that  _he_ was the best thing for Winter's heart.

So even when it became clear that they were only traveling higher than ever, and not even Tony could figure out a way to stop Ultron without killing everyone on this chunk of rock, Steve didn't give up. Winter was depending on him, and not just to keep from being annihilated by Ultron. He was relying on Steve's return. And Steve couldn't let him down.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 _Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,_  
_I will fear no evil,_  
_for you are with me._

_\- Psalm 23:4_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I had no intentions of bringing Age of Ultron into this fic. It's not my favorite movie in the MCU, and it didn't seem to have anything to do with the story I want to tell. But as I figured out how these characters would reintegrate with society after all the excitement dies down, I started thinking about what the other Avengers would be up to around this time. I know I fudged when TWS was supposed to take place, but this way things start to get wrapped up around May 2015, which is when Age of Ultron takes place. And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense to get Steve involved in those events.
> 
> For the most part, I think things would unfold as they do in the movie—Tony, after all, is the same guy regardless of what Steve is up to during this time, so he's just as likely to create Ultron in this AU. The main difference is just that Steve has a little more waiting for him back home. Also, I moved the timeframe of these events a little later, just because it worked better with everything that needed to happen before Natasha showed up. I think it makes sense that their quest might get delayed a few weeks because Steve wasn't there at first, and then wasn't 100% invested in the search. So all of this is happening at the end of June 2015.


	17. Pulling Back

_I would've gave it all_  
_Truth be told I can't believe you're gone_  
_Like a dream I can't recall_  
_Now I gotta face the fact that you're never coming back_  
  
_Cause you're running through my dreams_  
_It's like you're on repeat_  
_Feels like eternity, and I can't believe_

_\- “Alone” by I Prevail_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

When Ultron had been destroyed and they were finally able to return to the demolished Avengers Tower, Steve made a beeline for Sam. He practically collapsed into Sam's arms, making him stagger slightly with the weight of all his gear.

“Hey, man.” Sam grunted with the effort of holding up Steve, who was deliberately letting all of his dead weight fall on Sam's shoulders—just to be annoying. “Glad to see you—mmph—made it back in one piece. One...freaking _heavy_ piece....”

“So tired...” Steve groaned, shifting some of his weight back onto his own feet. “Let's go home.”

Only when the words had left his mouth did he realize how true they were. Home wasn't a place for him—it hadn't been since he'd joined the army. Home was made of people, and even though it had only been a couple of weeks, he was already homesick for Winter.

When Steve told the others that he and Sam were planning to leave immediately, he was met with less surprise and protest than he'd feared. Natasha knew their reasons, of course, and Clint and Thor both said they wanted to get home quickly too. Bruce had disappeared without a trace, Wanda was reeling from the loss of her brother, and Vision was still getting used to having a physical form, so neither of them seemed to care.

Tony put up a bit of a fuss, though Steve wondered if it was just because he'd been hoping he wouldn't have to stick around and train the new recruits. He trailed after Steve and Sam as they took their luggage out to the car bright and early the next morning. “Aw, but it's your birthday on Saturday, Cap!” he whined, sticking his lip out and making it tremble in mock sadness. “I was cooking up a big surprise for you!”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I think I've had enough of your surprises for a while, Tony.”

Tony grimaced. “Yeah, okay, fair enough. But seriously, you're just taking off? Not even gonna stay for your  _birthday?_ Come on, even you can lighten up that much! You're only 97 once!”

Steve shook his head with a smile. “There's just someone else I would rather spend it with.”

Tony frowned at this, glancing with a raised eyebrow at Sam, who merely put on a pair of sunglasses and got into the driver's seat without saying a word. Steve waved a cheerful goodbye and got into the car, leaving Tony to wonder and puzzle to his heart's content.

The hours and the miles seemed to stretch on forever as they made their way back to Winter. Steve wasn't sure if Wanda's vision of Peggy had prompted him to think of the past, but it seemed that every time he fell asleep during the long drive, he ended up dreaming of Bucky. Some of these dreams were just fleeting snatches of memory and imagination, dwelling on what it had been like to have him in his life.

But the most vivid dream was of something that had never happened.

_He was marching through the snow at the bottom of an icy gorge, searching the drifts on either side for any sign of life._

_Then he saw a splash of red against the blanket of white—a puddle of blood nearly obscured in the falling snow. “Bucky!” he yelled, racing forward and dropping to his knees by the pile of snow._

_His strong arms shoveled the drifts away in two mighty sweeps, uncovering the body underneath. Bucky lay still, his skin almost as white as the ground. There was so much blood staining his blue coat that Steve couldn't even tell where it all came from._

“ _Bucky....” Steve pulled the broken body of his best friend into his arms and rocked back and forth on his knees,_ _trying to stem the torrent of grief before it drowned him._

_Steve's tears washed over the ice riming Bucky's eyelashes, nose, and lips. He pressed his forehead against Bucky's and placed a hand against his icy cheek. His heart felt as cold and heavy as if it had frozen alongside Bucky's. Without his best friend, his heart would never beat again...._

_Wait. Something was pulsing against his chest, so faintly it was like the beating of a hummingbird's wings. Slowly, barely daring the breathe, he slid his fingers down Bucky's cheek and pressed them against his throat._

Thump...thump...thump....

_The dream shifted, and the next thing he could remember was sitting by Bucky's bed in the hospital. Bandages covered most of Bucky's exposed skin, but he was breathing and looking up at Steve, and that was all that mattered._

“ _Whatsa matter?” Bucky croaked, his voice as hoarse as if he'd been dragged from the very precipice of the grave._

_Steve's insides burned with shame, but he couldn't rip his gaze from his best friend's face. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “This is all my fault. I-I should have caught you...I should have found you sooner....”_

_Bucky reached up and laid a bandaged hand on his shoulder. “'S nothing you coulda done,” he mumbled. “You did everything..._ everything. _You saved me. Gave me my life back. Most people...wouldn't even try looking for me. They'd say there's no hope for me.”_

“ _I could never give up on you, Buck.”_

_He raised his hand to clasp Bucky's, but he didn't feel bandages. He looked down and blinked in confusion several times before he realized that the hand on his shoulder was positioned differently than Bucky's had been, and the skin was too dark._

Then he looked up and saw that he was sitting in the car next to Sam, who was driving with one hand while he kept the other on Steve's shoulder. Sam glanced over, then returned his gaze to the road. “You were moaning,” he said quietly. “You okay?”

Steve opened his mouth to say he was fine, but instead he sighed. “No. Not right now. Bucky....” His voice died in his throat, and he stared fixedly at the Rocky Mountains in the distance.

The thought haunted him now more than ever: What would he have found if he'd gone in search of Bucky's body, that horrible day he'd fallen off the train? Steve had gone back to London in order to regroup and make one final strike against Johann Schmidt. He'd thought that was the right thing to do...but what if it wasn't? What if Bucky  _had_ survived the fall, and he'd failed him worse than ever by not going to look for him?  _I could never give up on you,_ he'd said. But he  _had_ given up on Bucky. Even though the chances of him still being alive when he landed were slim to none, he should still have  _tried._ He would never forgive himself for that.

Sam said nothing, but he kept his warm, reassuring hand on Steve's shoulder. His quiet acceptance and understanding was more comforting than any words he could have said. He didn't try to cheer Steve up, didn't try to fix anything. He knew that grief wouldn't be fixed, only endured.

Steve sat back in his seat, oddly grateful that his friends were as broken as he was. It meant they knew how to care for him best.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Finally, they drove up to the familiar cabin in the dying light of the summer sun. Winter stood on the front steps waiting for them. His feet were bare, and he was wearing a T-shirt Steve had given him that said  _I'm With Stupid,_ with a hand pointing in one direction. (Steve had gotten Sam a matching shirt, and one for himself that said  _I'm Surrounded By Idiots._ He wished now that they'd thought to wear theirs too.)

Steve jumped out of the car even before Sam had pulled it to a complete stop, leaping to the top of the steps in one bound. “It's so good to see you!” he cried, catching Winter up into a bear hug and spinning him around with a laugh.

Winter let out a small sound of surprise as he whirled through the air, but when Steve put him down again, his eyes were smiling. Steve grinned as Sam joined them, calling out a cheerful greeting to Winter.

It was good to be home again.

Reunions with friends must have been playing with his subconscious, because even though he didn't think of Bucky as he went to bed that night, he dreamed of him again.

_Steve sighed and wiped the last of the rotten tomatoes off his tin costume shield. Cheers and whoops from the crowd that had just booed him off stage only reinforced his feeling of uselessness. He had lied on his enlistment form, suffered through Basic Training even though every day he felt like he would collapse, and undergone a risky experimental procedure that could have killed him. He'd finally made it across the ocean, to the battlefront he'd been longing to see for months._

_And a troupe of dancing girls with no military training whatsoever was welcomed with open arms while he was shunted to the side._

_With a sigh, Steve gathered his things together and pulled his coat closed around his stupid costume. He trudged away from the stage, not sure where he was going but glad to get as far away as possible before his next humiliating display._

_A voice called out behind him. “Hey, wait!”_

_Steve ignored it and kept walking. Probably just another soldier wanting to laugh and throw things at him. He picked up his pace._

“ _Wait!” the voice huffed behind him, trying to catch up. “Captain America!”_

“ _What?” Steve snapped, whirling around to face whoever it was._

_But the man who skidded to a stop in the mud wasn't a sneering stranger. It wasn't a stranger at all. “Bucky?”_

_Bucky's tired, grimy face split into a grin. “I_ knew _it was you! You look so different, but I'd recognize that voice anywhere.”_

_Steve threw his arms around Bucky and held him close. “I thought you were dead.”_

_Bucky choked out a breathless laugh, prompting Steve to release his hold. “And I thought you were smaller.” Massaging his ribs, he looked Steve up and down, then prodded the firm muscles of his biceps as if to check that they were real. “What_ happened _to you?”_

_Steve smiled wryly. “Howard Stark happened.”_

_Bucky's eyes widened as he looked him over again. “Did it hurt?”_

“ _A little.”_

“ _Is it permanent?”_

“ _So far.”_

_They stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing. Not just a light chuckle, but a deep belly laugh that banished every last shred of anxiety in Steve's heart. He hadn't laughed this hard since Bucky had died. He hadn't felt such relief since he'd come home and seen the smile in Winter's eyes...._

As soon as that thought crossed his mind, he opened his eyes and saw that instead of laughing with his best friend in a war camp in France, he lay alone in bed, hugging his pillow to his chest.

It was a poor substitute for a best friend.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

At first, Steve was so happy to be able to relax with his friends that he didn't notice anything unusual. On the first evening, Steve was still so tired from the past couple of weeks that he went to bed early. The next day, however, he noticed that Winter didn't seem quite as happy as he'd expected. As the hours wore on into days, Steve realized that Winter kept on drawing away from them. In the middle of a conversation with Sam, Steve would realize that Winter had slipped silently away. When they suggested various activities they could do together, Winter just shrugged or trailed along behind them reluctantly, even for things he used to enjoy. When they went running, he didn't race Steve or tease Sam for running so slowly. When Steve read some of  _White Fang,_ a book they were in the middle of, Winter barely seemed to listen. When they played cards, Sam had to keep reminding Winter when it was his turn, and he didn't engage in the others' jovial banter.

What was wrong? Winter had seemed so unwilling to let them go before, and then so happy when they'd returned. On the phone, he'd sounded so lonesome, like he missed Steve as much as Steve missed him...but now it was like he wished they would hurry up and leave.

For the first time, Steve wondered what Winter had been doing while they were gone. He realized he'd imagined Winter feeling lonely and bored without them there, but what if it had been the exact opposite? What if he'd gotten a taste of what life could be like on his own, and he'd realized that was what he wanted? He'd had a chance to live on his own, and realized that he didn't need Steve to survive.

But Steve needed Winter. When he hung up the dish towel after washing the supper dishes on Friday night, only to turn around and see Winter closing his bedroom door behind him, he felt a cold, empty pit open in his stomach. For so long, he'd been so focused on helping Winter and being there for him that he hadn't realized just how much  _he_ relied on Winter's quiet, steady companionship.

There had been a time, long ago when they had first met, when Steve had loved Winter for who he was and known that Winter didn't return the sentiment. So why did it hurt so much more when he realized that was the case again?

Steve did his best to stay cheerful around Sam, not wanting him to worry. But he went to bed that night unhappy, and lay staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours. An uneasy feeling of deja vu settled over him. It took him a while to figure out why, but then he realized when he had felt this cold, unreal emptiness in the pit of his stomach before. When he'd first woken up after being frozen, and it had hit him that all the people he'd known and loved were dead, he had felt like this. It was almost like dread, or maybe despair—a certainty that nothing would ever be the same, that a priceless treasure had just slipped through his fingers.

It was like when he had lost Bucky—not the raw agony of watching him fall, screaming his name, sobbing until his sides ached.... That was bad enough, but the worst pain came after the first shock was over. After his tears had dried and he could think straight again, he'd had to deal with the understanding that Bucky was gone. Not just that he was dead, but that he was  _gone._ He would never see Bucky again, never hear his laughter, never feel him at his side.

Winter was still alive and well—he'd never been better—but Steve could feel him slipping from his grasp as surely as Bucky had. And once again, Steve would be alone.

Steve rolled onto his side, eyes stinging but remaining dry. For some reason, he thought of what Peggy had said to him when Bucky died.  _Did you believe in your friend? Did you respect him? Then allow Barnes the dignity of his choice._

Steve sighed. As usual, Peggy was right. Bucky's choices had led him to that horrible day on the train, but they had been  _his_ choices. He had made them freely and willingly, knowing what was at stake but still wanting to do what was right. Even if Steve had known what would happen, it would have been wrong to force Bucky to make different choices. He made them because that was who he was.

In the beginning, Steve had set out to restore Winter's ability to make his own choices about his life. So he would respect those choices, even if it hurt. He would give Winter whatever he needed, even if what he needed was to be separated from Steve and go his own way.

Perhaps it was because he'd been thinking of Bucky, but he dreamed of him that night again. It was as vivid as any vision Wanda could make, as real as if it were actually happening around him.

_He was small and skinny, as he had been before the serum, but the war had continued without him. He lived with Bucky's family, who had insisted on not leaving him in his old apartment alone. He was aware of these things with the matter-of-fact acceptance of a dream; he didn't even have to think to acknowledge them._

_He was sick again, bundled up in bed feeling miserable and lethargic. He was distantly aware of several excited female voices in the next room, and wondered if they'd gotten news that the war was over. But no...they'd heard that on the radio before he'd gotten sick._

_Steve closed his eyes, nearly drifting off again, when he heard a deep voice say, “Did you take your medicine?”_

_His eyes snapped open, and he saw a man standing over his bed that he hadn't dared hope he would ever see again. Grinning, still wearing his uniform, practically bursting with strength and vitality, Bucky looked somehow more like himself now than when he'd left. “Hey, pal,” was all he said before he dropped his bag on the floor and practically collapsed on top of Steve._

_The first sob ripped its way out of Steve's chest as if it had a life of its own, and once he started crying, he couldn't seem to stop. Bucky's warm, real weight pressed down on him. A cloud of scents descended upon him even through his senses dulled by sickness. Clean hair, a thin undercurrent of sweat, a lingering tinge of coffee, and something dusty and smoky, a souvenir of battle and foreign lands that hadn't been scrubbed away yet._

“ _Bucky,” he gasped, thin fingers gripping the back of Bucky's shirt with brittle strength. “Bucky...is it really you?”_

_Bucky chuckled, a soft rumble that Steve could feel vibrating in every bone. “Yeah, it's really me.” He kissed Steve on the cheek. “What are you crying so much for, Stevie? I'm back now; you're supposed to be happy.”_

“ _I aaaaa-haaam....” The word became a wail, then a hiccuping gasp for breath. Bucky's weight pressed down on his rib cage, and he was too weak to even tell Bucky he couldn't breathe._

_But Bucky knew him almost better than he knew himself, so he didn't have to be told. He immediately straightened and pulled Steve to a sitting position, rubbing his back until Steve's breathing evened out again. Resting a hand on his heart and waiting for it to slow its frantic pace, Steve looked up to murmur a word of thanks. But then he saw Bucky sitting next to him, smiling down at him with a look of fond care that he hadn't seen in so long...._

_With another broken cry, Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky's neck and buried his face in Bucky's warm, solid chest. “M-Missed you.... I...I thought you were d-dead....”_

_Everything was getting so confused in his mind. Hadn't he seen Bucky die? Hadn't he watched him fall? He couldn't remember...._

_Bucky's fingers threaded through his hair, as if clearing a space for him to place his next kiss. “I'm not dead,” he whispered into Steve's hair. “I'm right here with you.”_

Steve opened his eyes to find himself in bed in the cabin, lying on a pillow damp with his own tears. He let out a sound halfway between a sob and a moan as the torrent of emotions at getting Bucky back settled into the ache of knowing it had only been a dream. Bucky was dead. There was no way that reunion would be anything but the fleeting product of his own wishful thinking.

He rolled onto his other side, pulling the blanket over his head and trying to fall back to sleep and recapture that moment of bliss. But he knew it was futile. He would never get that dream back again. Already, the sharp sensory details were fading into a rigid mental photograph of what had happened. He remembered sobbing in Bucky's arms, but not what Bucky had smelled like. Not the rumble of his voice in his chest. Not the way his hands felt as they brushed stubborn strands of hair out of Steve's eyes.

Steve used the edge of the sheet to wipe his eyes as he took a shaky breath. He had to pull himself together, at least for the others' sake. As his mind slowly woke up, he remembered what day it was. Saturday. July 4 th . His birthday. He felt the weight of every day of the 97 years he'd been alive, but he had to get up and put a smile on his face. Bucky wouldn't want him trapped in an endless cycle of grief and pain, would he? He would want Steve to  _live._

Slowly, Steve pushed himself to a sitting position and tried to will himself out of bed. He could hear the others moving around, and knew that they would start to worry soon if he didn't show up.

The rising sun broke over the peak of a mountain, suddenly flooding his room with light. A sunbeam spilled across his bed, washing him in its warm glow, enfolding him like a warm embrace. Steve's breath left him in a rush. It was stupid, he knew it was—just his imagination taking advantage of his vulnerable emotional state.... But Bucky's voice returned to him, as distinctly as if he were in the room:  _I'm not dead. I'm right here with you._

Steve didn't know if he believed in ghosts or spirits, but if there  _was_ some way he could reach beyond the grave and enter Steve's dream, this was exactly what Bucky would have done. It was like a birthday present—a painful one, but maybe it was the only way they could be together again, even briefly. He clung to every ephemeral moment of this connection, hoarding them in his heart for the days when the world felt completely empty.

He could almost hear Bucky's exasperated sigh, could almost see his crooked smile.  _Such a greedy little punk._

A small, hesitant smile found its way onto Steve's face. “Jerk.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_Behold, how good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell in unity!_

_\- Psalm 133:1_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my excuse to fit three more AUs into this AU :P I have lots of ideas about alternatives that would allow Steve and Bucky to remain together. Most of them don't pan out very well, because someone will end up dying or alone eventually—it's odd when you think of all the pain and loneliness they suffer in the canon version of events, but at the end of the day I do actually think it's the best way things could have turned out. But it's fun to play around with different turns the story could take, and dreams are an easy way to do that. The third dream was heavily inspired by a video I saw of a soldier coming home and surprising his sick brother. It was so raw, so real, so beautiful that I felt like I was intruding just by watching it on YouTube. It seemed like exactly the sort of thing these two would do.
> 
> One minor note: White Fang by Jack London is a painfully beautiful story about a half-wolf whose life of violence, abuse, and healing mirrors Winter's surprisingly well. I highly recommend the book or the movie ;)


	18. Winter's End

_Nothing can shatter_  
_The promise I made to you_  
_That our love will make you whole_  
_And I will be faithful_  
_Dying to be with you_  
_I will not let you go_  
  
_But I will give my life to win your heart_  
_And I will tear apart my soul_  
_I'll give away all I know to bring you home_  
_For all that is true_  
_For all of the way_  
_With all of my life_

_\- “Desert Lands” by Trading Yesterday_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve carried the dream of Bucky with him like an invisible talisman warding away his melancholy mood. Sam, at least, was trying to make the day special for him. He greeted Steve with a plate piled high with chocolate-chip pancakes fresh off the stove, and kept flipping more onto his plate until Steve couldn't eat another bite. Winter barely said a word through the meal, but at least he sat at the table the whole time.

The morning slipped lazily away. They sat around the table much longer than usual, just talking and enjoying each other's company. After they'd cleaned up the kitchen, Sam announced that he was going into town to get supplies for Steve's birthday cake and the picnic supper they were planning to have. Earlier in the week, Sam had located a park where they could watch fireworks that night, far enough away from the festivities so Winter's mask wouldn't draw too much attention. Sam waved away Steve's offer to go with him and help with the groceries, then drove off and left him alone with Winter.

There was an odd tension in the air when the house fell silent in Sam's wake, and for the first time in a very long while, Steve felt awkward around Winter. Something was different between them, but he couldn't figure out what had changed, so he didn't know how to fix it.

Winter stood in the closed-in porch at the back of the cabin, staring through the window with a vacant expression that said he wasn't taking any of it in. Steve walked up beside him as casually as he could and said, “Hey, want to go for a walk? It's pretty nice outside.”

Winter just shrugged, not looking up.

“Or we could take a spin on the motorcycle,” Steve suggested. “We haven't done that in a while.”

Another shrug.

“Want to...watch a movie?”

Shrug.

“Read a book?”

Shrug.

“Well, we ought to do _something,_ ” Steve said, a note of impatience entering his voice. He bit his tongue before he could petulantly add, _It is my birthday, after all._

Winter said nothing, but as he waited for a response, Steve looked at him more closely. There were dark circles under his eyes, as if he'd been sleeping poorly. And he knew Winter well enough by now to look for the tension in his shoulders, the droop in his posture, the way his eyebrows pinched together. Something was weighing heavily on him. Steve suddenly remembered that Winter had started to tell him something over the phone, but then stopped himself. He wished Winter would just tell him what was bothering him and get it out in the open.

Better yet, he wished Winter could just enjoy a holiday for once. Steve didn't want his birthday to end up as lousy as Christmas had, nor to waste what little time they had together with this odd uneasiness. Why couldn't Winter just be happy for one measly day...?

That thought brought him up short, twinging with guilt. In the end, did it really matter  _why_ Winter was unhappy? Knowing the reason would make it easier for Steve to know how to help, but it didn't change that Winter wasn't happy right now. And Steve wasn't excused from trying to help just because it was his birthday.

Winter didn't even look up when Steve slipped away. He went to his room and picked up the sketchbook sitting on his bedside table, flipping through it until he found his most recent drawing. He carefully tore out the page and took it back to the porch, where Winter stood in the same position as before.

“Hey, Winter,” he said, “do you know when _your_ birthday is?”

Winter hesitated, lifting his head slightly as if thinking his answer through, and Steve's hopes rose. Did he actually remember something? Maybe the date, or a birthday party from his childhood? But then Winter just shrugged again.

Undeterred, Steve went on. “That's fine. You can share mine.”

Finally, he managed to get a reaction. Winter turned his head just enough to peek at him from the corner of his eye. “What?”

Steve smiled and held the drawing out to him. “Happy Birthday, Winter.”

Slowly, Winter took the picture and examined it. It was a drawing of Winter standing in the rain with his head tipped back, eyes closed as the water rolled down his face and dripped from his outstretched arms. Steve had crumpled up three different attempts before he'd managed to capture the look of absolute tranquility he remembered seeing on Winter's face that day. It was tricky to get right, when the only expression he could draw was on the upper half of the face.

As he looked at the picture of himself, Winter grew completely still. His hair fell in front of his face, so Steve couldn't see anything of his expression. Just as he was beginning to worry about the silence, Winter murmured, “Is this...what I look like?”

“It's what I see.”

Winter placed the drawing carefully on the dining table, then slowly raised his eyes to Steve's face. He drew a long breath, and Steve almost expected him to say something deep and meaningful. Instead, he said, “But...it's not my birthday. Probably. 364 to one.”

Steve smiled. “But you ought to have a birthday, and this way it'll be easy to remember when it is.”

Winter shot him a look of exasperated confusion. “Why is it so important for me to have a birthday?”

“Because a birthday is a day to celebrate your life.” He looked fondly at his friend, who had come so far and endured so much. “And I'm _so glad_ your life overlapped with mine. I think that's worth celebrating.”

Winter's fingers brushed the penciled outline of his own face, then looked up at Steve, facing him directly for the first time all day. “Really?”

The uncertainty quivering in his voice broke Steve's heart. He stepped forward, closing the already short distance between them, and pulled Winter into a tight hug. “I hope that doesn't come as a surprise. You're my best friend, Winter, and I love you. You know that, right?”

Winter stood in his embrace, not raising his arms to hug him back. He rested his forehead against Steve's shoulder and said, “Yeah. I....” His voice faded away, lost in the heave of a shuddering gasp. “I....”

Steve could actually feel his heart start hammering against him, but just as he realized Winter was having another panic attack, Winter placed his metal hand on Steve's chest and roughly shoved him back. Unprepared, Steve stumbled back a few steps and almost fell over a chair at the dining table. Winter muttered something that sounded like, “can't do this anymore.” He all but ran through the living room and disappeared down the hallway. A door slammed, making Steve flinch as though Winter had slapped him.

Slowly, Steve walked into the living room and looked down the hallway, toward the closed door of the bathroom. He knew that Winter was in there, ripping off his mask and trying to breathe, trying to suppress his own fear.

Fear that Steve had triggered somehow. He sank into one of the chairs in the lower area of the room, staring at his hands resting in his lap. What had gone wrong? It had been a long time since Winter had reacted to something so strongly. What had Steve done to set him off?

Was it the hug? But it had been months since physical touch had sent him over the edge like that. He knew now that they would never hurt him, so he had nothing to fear. Steve had thought—no, he was  _sure—_ that Winter  _liked_ being touched now. He sought it out. Why would it bother him so much now?

Steve propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his clasped hands. Maybe it was something he'd said? He thought back over the exact words he'd used, trying to figure out what might have come out wrong.

When had Winter started to panic? Running through the conversation again, the first time he could remember noticing signs of distress was when he'd said,  _You're my best friend and I love you._

Why would he panic when Steve said he loved him? Was their relationship really so fragile that a declaration of love became a threat? But then Steve recalled what Winter had said before running off.  _I can't do this anymore._

Did Winter feel...stifled? Trapped? Like somehow, because Steve had helped him, he was obligated to love him back or play some role to pay off a debt? Maybe their time apart had proven to Winter that he didn't need them anymore. Maybe he'd discovered that he  _liked_ being away from them. Hydra was a sunken ship; there was no one left to hunt him down or force him to do anything. Maybe this taste of complete freedom these past few weeks was all he needed to realize that he was ready to move on. From everything.

If that was the case, was he afraid of how Steve would react when he said he wanted to leave? After all this time, could it be that he still thought Steve would be angry if Winter asked for what he needed? Steve rubbed his forehead with trembling fingers, then moved to massage his temples with his thumbs. Even now, the hard expectations Hydra had taught Winter about the way the world worked clung to him like a vicious leech, sucking his life away.

The air emptied from deep in his lungs. He wouldn't stop Winter, of course. He'd known all along that this day would come, the day that Winter was strong enough to venture into the world without him and not come back. That had always been the goal, right? Steve just hadn't expected that day to come so soon.

_Soon._ He choked back a mirthless laugh. It had been nearly ten months since that first unexpected meeting. Ten months.... So much had changed for both of them. There would be no going back. He would never be the same man he'd been before Winter had entered his life. And ten months was far too short a time to spend with such a good friend. A lifetime would be too short.

He just wished there was more he could do. He didn't want to part like this, awkward and bitter. If Winter were to strike out on his own, Steve wanted to give him a good send-off. He was just afraid that Winter wouldn't let him now. He probably wanted to get away as fast as possible.

Steve wasn't sure how long he sat there brooding, but eventually the door to the bathroom opened and Winter emerged. Steve slowly got to his feet. He expected Winter to hole himself up in his room, or skittishly avoid Steve's presence, after what had happened.

Instead, as soon as he stepped into the living room, Winter made a beeline for Steve. He stumbled down the steps to the lower part of the room, where Steve stood motionless, and didn't stop until they were face to face. Winter looked exhausted, with slumped shoulders and bags under his eyes, as though he'd been fighting for his life and barely won. Then he stepped right into Steve's personal space, touched his cheek with cold metal fingers, and rested their foreheads together.

Steve was afraid to move. He didn't know what he'd done wrong before, didn't know what might set Winter off now. But finally, he couldn't keep himself from whispering, “What can I do?”

Winter was so close that Steve couldn't see the expression on his face, but he did feel the bone-weary sigh escape through the small vents in the mask. “Hold me.”

So he did. He lifted one hand to brush the hair out of Winter's face, and for the first time he noticed a small scar on Winter's temple. It was a faint white mark, usually hidden under Winter's hair—a small burn the size of a nickel, as if hot metal had been pressed there repeatedly. Steve pressed his lips to the spot instead. He wrapped his arms around Winter, more gently than last time, and pulled him closer till their chests were touching.

He wanted to say something reassuring, but he didn't know what words to use when the most important ones he could say had backfired so horribly. So he used the language Winter seemed to respond to best, and let his hands do the talking instead. After almost a year together, he knew exactly what Winter liked best. He rubbed his hands up and down Winter's spine—sometimes with open palms, sometimes with knuckles, sometimes with fingertips. He kneaded the muscles around the metal shoulder, often tense and stiff as they moved the incongruous appendage. He trailed his fingers up Winter's neck, over the mask's binding, and into Winter's hair. He gently combed out the tangles, scratching nails against his scalp, drawing invisible circles into the space above his ears. At some points Steve was motionless, one hand on Winter's shoulder and one on the small of his back, breathing in tandem.

Steve's heart sank lower the longer he stood there, his gut slowly twisting into painful knots. He had a feeling this would be the last time he could hold Winter. When they did finally break apart, Winter would confess he wanted to leave, and by the end of the day he would be gone. And Steve knew better than to hope they would meet again. Winter would hide himself so thoroughly it would be like he'd never existed.

But Steve would never forget that he existed. Not a day would pass that he wouldn't wonder where Winter was, hope he was doing all right, wish he could see him again. He couldn't believe that it was possible to miss Winter so much while he was still in his arms.

His heart lurched painfully when he realized what this cold pit in his stomach reminded him of. Why did this keep happening? He'd felt the same when Bucky had been hurled out of his life. Now, just as with Bucky, he faced an interminable succession of days without a dear friend. Even though Winter was still alive, his departure would feel just as complete and final as Bucky's. And Steve wasn't ready to say goodbye. There was still so much to say to him, so much to learn about him. He wanted to keep laughing with him, enjoying the world together, helping each other face the joys and sorrows of this life.

What hurt more than anything was that Winter apparently didn't.

Winter was only doing what was best for his future, Steve knew. He had decided he needed to be alone, and he would follow through on that decision. He'd grown so much from the man who had been ordered what to do every moment of every day, and Steve was so proud of him. It had to be a terrifying prospect, to leave behind everything he knew in order to decide what  _he_ wanted his life to look like. But Winter had faced and conquered so many terrifying things over the past year. What was one more?

Minutes ticked by, but neither of them moved to break the embrace. Steve wished time could just stop and leave them there forever. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have, or a choice he wanted to see Winter make. Memories of the days they'd spent together streamed through his mind. Reading to him in bed. Sitting at the table and looking across at a man wearing a blue bandanna. Tending to cuts on his arm. Running with him in the brisk morning air. Sitting up late at night, sipping hot chocolate in front of a crackling fire. Moments of silence, snatches of laughter. Somehow, it was the little things that felt the most precious.

He didn't want to banish any of them to mere memory. It was no comfort to know that in years to come, he could pull up a clear mental image of the way sunlight glistened on Winter's metal arm or the way his hair tickled Steve's neck as they stood there. He didn't want to simply remember Winter. He wanted to live with him  _right now._

They could have been standing there for hours, even days, but when Winter finally raised his arms from where he had looped them around Steve's waist, it felt far too soon. Steve's arms convulsively tightened around Winter for a moment, a silent scream for him to stay.

“Steve.”

He realized, as he reluctantly let Winter step back, that this was the first time Winter had ever called him by his given name. He was  _Cap_ or  _Captain America_ so often now, even with his friends, that hearing his own name sent a shiver down his spine. And it sounded so soft in Winter's quiet voice, like a comforting blanket of familiarity.

“There's something I...need to tell you.” Winter's eyes flicked up nervously to Steve's, then dropped to the floor again.

_Here it comes,_ Steve thought, his stomach now an anxious, convoluted knot.  _He'll say that he's going to leave. That he wants this to end._

“I-I know I should have told you this a long time ago,” Winter stammered, “but...but I was...at first I didn't trust you, and then...then I was af...I was afraid of what your reaction would be.” He glanced up at Steve's face again and immediately took a step back, shaking his head furiously. “No, don't—don't feel bad, don't— Sorry, sorry....” He covered his face with both hands and let out a growl of frustration, shoving his fingers up into his hair. “This is all coming out wrong....”

“It's okay, don't worry about it,” Steve soothed, in a much calmer tone than he expected. Winter hadn't stumbled over his words this much in a long time, even when he was agitated. But he should know by now that he could say anything he needed to without fear. “Why don't you start over?”

Winter took a few deep breaths, visibly calming himself down though his hands trembled as they slid back down his face. When he spoke next, his voice was steady.

“Before I met you,” he murmured softly, keeping his head bowed, “I was so lost I didn't even know there was such a thing as hope. But even so, you found me. You saved me before I even thought I could ask for help. You've given me so much. You gave me a name...a home...safety, clothes, food...and yourself. Friendship...purpose...a life. A _future._ ” He raised his head again, but now there was no sign of anxiety in his eyes, only an unbearable sorrow.

_This is it._

“I'm sorry I can't give you anything better in return. All I have is me.”

Only when Winter turned his back and reached behind his head did understanding break and Steve realized what he meant. He stood stock still, hardly daring to breathe. This wasn't going in any direction he'd expected, and his heart pounded as he watched Winter slowly unfasten the mask.

“I'm sorry it's taken me so long,” Winter said, “but you...you, of all people, deserve to know the truth. And I trust you with every part of me.” The mask fell from his hand, bouncing harmlessly under the coffee table. And for the first time, Steve heard Winter's voice without anything to muffle or distort it—lighter, clearer, and stronger than ever. “I want you to know,” he said slowly, keeping his back to Steve, “that however you react...it's fine. And if you decide you can't accept me—the _real_ me—for any reason at all, that's okay too. I know you always give me exactly what I deserve.”

Whatever he'd imagined Winter was hiding, whatever theories he had developed in the absence of knowing for sure, nothing— _nothing_ —prepared him for the shock that seared him like a branding iron from head to toe when Winter turned around and faced him at last.

He  _knew_ that face.

“Bucky?”

The name was all he could say, the only word remaining in his vocabulary in that moment. He staggered to the side and dropped into a chair, not tearing his eyes away for a second from the face he had never fully seen...which had become a face he could never forget.

This was a dream. It had to be. There was no way...but what else could this be? His ears were ringing, his heart was galloping, little spots appeared in his vision. He couldn't remember how to breathe until he sucked in enough air to weakly ask, “How? You...fell. I  _watched_ you fall!”

Winter— _Bucky_ —sank into the couch opposite him, self-consciously tugging at a lock of his hair. “Hydra. When they captured me...that time you rescued me from their base in Azzano. They...experimented on me. I...I think they must have started me on the serum then, and it helped me survive the fall...barely.”

He kept glancing at Steve in a low-grade panic as he babbled on. “I...I can prove it to you. Ask me anything—something only Bucky would know. Um...your mother's name is Sarah. You used to put newspapers...in your shoes. I-I can tell you—“

“Bucky,” Steve choked out, interrupting him. “All this time...it was _you?_ How...How could I not _know?_ ”

Steve watched him hunch his shoulders and lock his gaze with the floor, struggling for words. With his cringing posture, metal arm, and the long hair falling around his face, it was too easy to think of him only as Winter. “You had no way of knowing,” he mumbled at last. “You thought I was dead. It would never have occurred to you.... And-And I'm so different....”

But Steve didn't need convincing. One look at his face, and there was no doubt this was the friend he'd grown up with. He could see all the details that had escaped him for the past ten months. Or maybe he _had_ noticed them, on some subconscious level, and just hadn't acknowledged them until now. How many times had Winter done or said something that brought back memories and thoughts of Bucky, which Steve had simply written off as a symptom of his loneliness? Too often...and now he understood why.

“Bucky...” Steve whispered, his eyes filling with tears.

“Can I be Bucky again?” his friend whispered, his right hand shaking as he held it out to Steve. Their eyes met across the room. “Can I...stay with you...till the end of the line?”

And he knew the exact moment his heart shattered.

With a broken cry, Steve lunged across the distance between them and practically threw himself at Bucky, landing so hard on the couch that, if not for the wall behind it, he would have sent it and them careening backwards. The hug from just minutes ago had been a quiet, gentle embrace, comfortably positioned in each other's arms. Now he grabbed Bucky with a desperation he hadn't felt in decades, crushing him with all his strength into the couch cushions and not letting go, as if to rewrite the time he had reached for Bucky and missed.

A strangled wail met his ears, like some kind of animal being choked to death. It was a moment before he realized the sound was coming from  _ him,  _ ripping through his lungs and up his throat with a vengeance he was completely unprepared for _. _ He had carried this painful loneliness with him for so long that relief from it was incomprehensible, possible only because Bucky clutched at him with a need that matched his own. He might die of the agony...but it was the agony of joy, a beauty as piercing and pure as the first snow of winter. His heart swelled with such emotion that he was sure it would burst...but he didn't mind dying if it was in Bucky's arms.

He didn't die, of course. His sobs stumbled over each other so he could barely breathe except to gasp out, over and over again, “Bucky...Bucky... _ Bucky.... _ ”

“It's okay,” Bucky murmured, his voice thick with tears as well. “I'm here.”

That only made Steve cry harder than ever, because Bucky was  _ here. _ He was  _ alive. _ It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a joke or a trick or a lie. Bucky was as real as the air he breathed, as real as any waking moment he had ever known, and the warm immediacy of his presence didn't fade away no matter how many times Steve expected to wake up.

Gradually, Steve became aware that one of his knees was up on the cushions, levering his whole weight up to crush Bucky against the back of the couch. Bucky would have fallen to the floor had he not already been sitting down, and as it was he could barely move. “Sorry,” Steve gasped, trying to master himself. Being pinned down like this would be terrifying for Winter...no, for  _ Bucky. _ “Sorry, I'll...I'll g-get up in a minute....”

Bucky's lips pressed against his cheek in a clumsy kiss. “Don't worry, Stevie,” he whispered. “I could do this all day....”

There was a hole in his heart that he'd been trying to live with, an aching absence he often managed to ignore. But with every passing moment, Bucky's solidifying presence filled that hole more and more, till it overflowed with more peace and love than he could possibly contain.  It was a part of himself he hadn't known since the day he watched Bucky fall into the abyss.

Steve didn't think he would ever be able to unlock his arms from their embrace, but eventually his sobs began to subside and he could draw deep, if shaky, breaths. “If this was your idea of a birthday present,” he mumbled into Bucky's shoulder, “then it's the best one you've ever given me, you  _ jerk. _ ”

Bucky let out a breathy sound that could have been a laugh. “You could always return it,” he said shakily. “I kept the receipt.”

“No way,” Steve said. “I'm keeping this one.”

Bucky sniffled and squeezed Steve so tightly his ribs ached. “Such a greedy little punk.”

His heart skipped a beat. This very morning, he had imagined Bucky saying that to him, back when he'd still believed he was dead. Now he heard those same words in Bucky's voice—Bucky's  _ real voice, _ speaking right into his ear. He didn't have to content himself with memories. He didn't have to imagine what Bucky would say, because he was  _ here _ and he could say it himself.

A giddy giggle escaped him, and once he started laughing, he couldn't stop. Bucky soon joined in, and they both shook helplessly with laughter and tears in equal measure. It was so strange—that was Winter's happy little chuckle, not Bucky's hearty guffaw. Reconciling both memories with the man in front of him would take some time.

As if he had read Steve's mind, Bucky said softly, “Are you sure you're okay with this? With...me? I'm not...the way I used to be. And now...I can't just be Winter either....”

Steve pulled back for the first time, just enough to look Bucky in the eye and let him sit up straight. Bucky's face was red and tear-streaked, his eyes puffy and bloodshot, his nose running. Steve knew he probably didn't look much better. He ran a gentle thumb under Bucky's eyes, brushing the tears away, then caught his eyes and smiled. “Are you kidding me? My two best friends are the  _ same person. _ This is the best day of my life.”

Bucky closed his eyes as Steve's fingers brushed against his cheeks. Steve kept his hand there, gently stroking yesterday's scratchy stubble. Bucky's lips quirked up in a blissful smile; if he could have, he probably would have been purring. It occurred to Steve that the last person to touch his face, other than Bucky himself, would have been someone from Hydra. So, to make up for a little of that time, Steve caressed Bucky's face with his thumbs. And when Steve pulled Bucky back into a hug, he pressed their cheeks together. It was scratchy and warm, so different from the smooth surface of the mask.

The clinging desperation was gone now, and they shifted into a more comfortable position in each other's arms before settling back into the cushions again. After several long minutes of contented silence, Steve voiced a question his overwrought mind had ignored until now. “When did you remember? How long have you known?”

Bucky almost seemed to shrink in his arms, as if hunkering down to make himself less noticeable. “Since...the beginning,” he mumbled. “That's...the main reason I agreed to go with you, back then. I remembered you calling my name, just pieces of you at the time...and I had to find out. I  _ had _ to know more.”

Steve held him at arm's length. “If you knew all this time...why didn't you say something sooner?”

Bucky cringed away, voice filled with guilt. “I-I was afraid...that when you found out...you wouldn't want...wouldn't want me anymore....”

Steve stared at him in disbelief. “Not  _ want _ you anymore? Even when I had nothing, I had you. When I  _ was _ nothing, you looked at me and decided I was worth something. Buck...you might think I saved you, but you saved me first. So many times, and in so many ways.”

Tears spilled from Bucky's red-rimmed eyes, as if he'd never expected to hear anything of the sort, and cautiously met Steve's gaze again. “Then...you really aren't angry? Even though I've lied to you all this time?”

Steve had thought all his tears were spent, but more welled up in his eyes as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind Bucky's ear. “The only thing I'm  _ angry _ about,” he said, his voice trembling so much he could barely get the words out, “is how you could  _ ever _ think I wouldn't  _ w-want _ you. You kn-know me better. Buck...after all this time...you know me better than that.”

Bucky clasped Steve's hands between his and pressed them to his lips. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, “I'm so sorry...I-I forgot....”

Steve rested his forehead against Bucky's so their tears dripped onto their clasped hands and mingled, washing away a little more of the pain. “You never will again.” He drew in a ragged breath, praying silently that the words in his heart would be better received this time. “You're my best friend, Buck,” he whispered, “and I love you.”

He didn't panic this time, didn't pull away, didn't reject what Steve offered him. He opened his mouth as if to say something in reply, but all that came out was a broken sob as he sank further into their embrace. And though he couldn't seem to find the words or the breath to respond, the strength of his grip told Steve all he needed to know.

The two of them were so focused on each other that they didn't really register the sounds of a car pulling up to the cabin and doors opening and closing. Steve had completely forgotten about Sam's shopping trip until the front door opened and Sam rustled noisily in, his arms laden with half a dozen heavy-looking shopping bags because  _ only weaklings make two trips, Steve _ . “Hey, do either of the supersoldiers wanna...oh.”

Steve looked up, sniffling, and saw Sam standing in the open doorway, looking a little sheepish when he saw that he was interrupting something important. There hadn't been any space in Steve's mind to spare for deciding how they would break this wonderful news to Sam. Heart swelling with elation, Steve got to his feet, wiping more tears away on the collar of his shirt. He wanted to tell the whole world that Bucky was alive, laugh and shout to everyone he knew that he had his best friend back. But he wanted Sam to know more than anyone.

Bucky rose as well, drying his eyes on his sleeve. When he turned to face Sam, all the grocery bags fell to the floor with a clunk.

“Winter...?”

Bucky smiled shyly—a crooked little grin that sent sunbeams bouncing off the walls and made Steve feel like he could finally draw breath after nearly drowning. “My name is Bucky.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Steve finished his third piece of apple cake as fireworks exploded in the night sky. The remains of his birthday meal spread before them on the tablecloth they'd laid on a grassy hillside overlooking the valley. The crowds were a fair distance away, but the breeze carried oohs and aahs as flowers of red, white, and blue burst over their heads.

Maybe Steve didn't have the best seat in the house for watching fireworks, but he wouldn't have traded his spot for the world. Sam was on his right, lazily waving flies away from his chicken bones. And on Steve's left, so close their arms brushed against each other with every movement, sat Bucky.

_Bucky._ Every time he looked over at his friend, Steve's heart jolted as he remembered  _this was real._ He would get used to the idea for a few minutes, see Bucky out of the corner of his eye and automatically think of him as Winter, and then it would hit him all over again.

This would be his life now. Every day, he would wake up to a world where Bucky was alive. He still couldn't quite believe it. He kept pinching himself to make sure this wasn't a dream.

As the fireworks show reached its grand finale, Steve let out a surprised laugh. Red stars burst in the middle of sprays of white and red. Then a quick sequence of rockets exploded, forming glowing golden letters in the sky:  _H-A-P-P-Y B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y C-A-P._

The audience cheered as a cloud of smoke wafted towards them from the fireworks. “Hmm,” Sam said, taking a swig of lemonade. “I told them to write  _Happy Birthday Steve,_ but I guess  _Cap_ was easier.”

“So _that's_ why your shopping trip took so long,” Bucky said with a grin. “I thought maybe your poor arms got too tired carrying all those _heavy_ bags.”

Sam flicked a watermelon seed at him.

“Okay, okay,” Steve laughed before they could start an all-out food fight. He wrapped his arms around their shoulders, pulling them in close on either side. Bucky squeezed his hand and Sam rested his head on Steve's shoulder.

They had all been broken by war and loss, left adrift and alone in a world that seldom felt like home. But somehow, in the midst of darkness and pain, they had all found each other. And together, they were whole.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found._

_\- Luke 15:32_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! Thank you so much for letting me share this story with you. It carries so much of my heart and soul, and still owns such a large part of my imagination. I'm just so happy to finally be able to share it with the world in its entirety.
> 
> You may remember me mentioning, at the very beginning, that I originally got the idea for this fic from someone on Tumblr. They mentioned that they wanted to see Steve decide to save the Winter Soldier, then finally get close enough to take off the mask, and find out it was Bucky all along. My very first thought after reading that story prompt (besides “THIS IS MY DESTINY”) was, “Yes...but I want Bucky to take off the mask.” I didn't necessarily have the words to articulate it yet, but I instinctively felt that it was important for Winter to make that decision for himself. He's come so far from the fragile, skittish person Steve originally saved, and now he can take his identity into his own hands.
> 
> As you might imagine, this chapter has gone through more versions than any other. From the beginning, I wasn't quite sure how I wanted it all to go down—not because I didn't have any ideas, but because there were just so many possibilities. Right up until I actually started writing this chapter, I couldn't decide how I wanted to do it. I tried to include as much as I could from all the different versions I'd come up with, and ultimately I'm very happy with how it all fell into place.
> 
> And the story continues! As you may recall, I will next start posting a deleted/extended scenes fic called Shards of Me, which will include scenes from alternate POVs and other moments we haven't gotten to see yet. I hope to see you all there! If there are any scenes you'd like to see from another angle, or requests for completely new scenes, just let me know. Thank you all for reading!


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